FROISSART   BALLADS, 


FROISSART   BALLADS, 


AND 


OTHER  POEMS 


PHILIP   PENDLETON   OOOKE. 


"  Emrni  venuta  certa  fantasia, 
Che  non  posso  cacciarmi  da  la  testa, 
Di  seriver  un  istoria  in  poesia 
Affatta  ignota  o  poco  manifesta." 

FORTEGUERRI. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

CAREY     AND    HART. 

1847. 


Entered,  according  to  the  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1847, 
BY  CAREY  AND  HART, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  for  the  Eastern  District 
of  Pennsylvania. 


C.    SHERMAN,    PRINTER, 
19  St.  James  Street. 


C775 


TO  THE 


HON.     J.     P.     KENNEDY, 


THESE  POEMS  ARE  INSCRIBED, 

BY 
HIS    FRIEND,    AND    KINSMAN, 

THE  AUTHOR. 


BJ807896 


CONTENTS. 


Preface 

Emily :  a  Proem  to  the  Froissart  Ballads  -                         13 

The  Master  of  Bolton 

Geoffrey  Tetenoire  -  *       - 

Orthone  •           -      126 

Sir  Peter  of  Beam  ...            137 

Oar  Lady's  Dog  -      153 

MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

The  Mountains             -  -           -           -           -           -    161 

Florence  Vane       -  -                       .           -           171 

The  Power  of  the  Bards  -    174 

To  Edith    -  179 

Life  in  the  Autumn  Woods  -                                               -      182 

To  my  Daughter  Lily        •  187 

The  Murder  of  Cornstalk  -                                               -      191 

Young  Rosalie  Lee  204 

Love  and^e  Kind       -  -      206 

Imaginary  Ills         -  -                                    208 

The  Story  of  Ugolino  -           -           -                       -      211 


PREFACE. 


THE  motto  of  my  title-page — the  opening  lines  of  the  Ricciar- 
detto  of  the  Roman  poet  and  prelate,  Forteguerri — gives  an  accu 
rate  idea  of  the  plan  of  the  Froissart  Ballads,  as  I  originally  con 
ceived  it : 


"  A  certain  freak  has  got  into  my  head, 
Which  I  can't  conquer  for  the  life  of  me, 

Of  taking  up  some  history,  little  read, 
Or  known,  and  writing  it  in  poetry." 


The  Proem  was  written  whilst  my  "  freak"  or  purpose  was  still 
of  this  limited  character ;  and  it  represents  the  ballads — not  then 
begun,  but  spoken  of  as  finished — as  versified  transcripts  from 
Froissart.  Perhaps,  if  I  had  carried  out  this  purpose  of  fidelity  to 
the  noble  old  chronicler,  my  poetry  would  have  been  all  the  better 
for  it.  I  have,  however,  not  done  so.  The  Master  of  Bolton,  and 
Geoffrey  Tetenoire  are  no  where  in  Froissart,  but  stories  of  my 
own  invention.  The  only  material  aid  I  have  drawn  from  his 
chronicles,  in  the  first  of  these  poems,  is  in  the  jousting  scenes  of 


X  PREFACE. 

its  concluding  parts.  They  are  borrowed  "with  a  difference" 
from  his  account  of"  the  deeds  of  arms  at  St.  Ingilbert,  otherwise 
called  Sandingfeld,  in  the  justs  enterprised  by  Sir  Raynold  of  Roy,1 
the  young  Sir  Boucequant,  and  the  Lord  of  Saimpi."  I  have 
also  adopted  my  names  generally  from  his  sonorous  Norman  and 
Frank  lists.  The  hawking  incident  is  taken  from  a  fine  old  story, 
by  what  author  I  do  not  recollect,  called  Love's  Falconrie — an 
appropriation  which  the  plan  of  my  labours,  aiming  at  no  origi 
nality  of  story— was  supposed  to  warrant.  In  Geoffrey  Tetenoire, 
Froissart  supplies  nothing  except  Geoffrey  himself,  and  the  fact 
that  he  drove  the  Countess  of  Montpensier  and  Ventadore  from 
her  castle  of  Ventadore.  The  remaining  poems,  Orthone,  Sir 
Peter  of  Beam,  and  Our  Lady's  Dog,  are  written  upon  the  origi 
nal  plan,  and  as  faithful  to  the  text  of  Froissart  as  the  necessities 
of  verse  permitted  me  to  make  them. 

The  reader  may  be  disposed  to  undervalue  poems  professing  to 
be  versifications  of  old  stories,  on  the  ground  of  a  want  of  origi 
nality.  I  ask  only,  in  anticipation  of  this,  that  he  will  recollect 
the  fact  that,  from  Chaucer  to  Dryden,  such  appropriations  of  old 
story  were  customary  with  the  noblest  poets  of  our  English  lan 
guage.  Of  the  Canterbury  Tales  of  Chaucer,  the  plots,  and  even 
most  of  the  incidents,  of  all  except  one  or  two,  have  been  traced 
by  Tyrwhitt  and  other  editors  to  earlier  (chiefly  Italian)  sources. 
Even  amongst  the  best  poets  of  a  recent  day,  the  practice  has  been 
to  some  extent  retained.  Until  the  world  thinks  the  less  of  the 
Canterbury  Tales,  or  of  the  Basil  Pot  of  John  Keats,  for  the  fact 


PREFACE.  XI 

that  they  trace  to  the  Filocopo  and  Decameron,  I  shall  hope  to  be 
justified  in  that  plan  of  my  work  to  which,  in  three  poems  out  of 
five,  I  have  adhered,  and  to  which  it  is  my  purpose  to  adhere  in 
some  future  poems. 

In  this  connexion  I  may  as  well  inform  the  reader  that  the  bal 
lads  now  published,  which  he  may  find  already  too  numerous  con 
sidering  their  quality,  are  only  a  few  of  my  projected,  and,  in 
some  cases,  roughly-executed  Froissart  Ballads.  The  Bridge  of 
Lusac,  Mont  d'Or,  The  Death  of  Young  Gaston  of  Foix,  Belle- 
perche,  and  several  others,  are  still  behind.  If  my  book  lives  at 
all  beyond  the  present  day,  I  may  hereafter  add  these  stories  to 
the  present  list,  and  make  the  collection  answer,  in  bulk,  at  least, 
to  the  somewhat  over-loud  note  of  preparation  sounded  in  the 
Proem. 

P.  P.  C. 

Millwood,  Clarke  Co.,  Va. 
Nov.  10,  1846. 


EMILY: 

A  PROEM  TO  THE  FROISSART  BALLADS. 


"  Uprose  the  sun,  and  uprose  Emily." 

CHAUCER. 

YOUNG  EMILY  has  temples  fair, 

Caressed  by  locks  of  dark  brown  hair. 

A  thousand  sweet  humanities 

Speak  wisely  from  her  hazel  eyes. 

Her  speech  is  ignorant  of  command, 

But  it  can  lead  you  like  a  hand. 

Her  white  teeth  sparkle  when  the  eclipse, 

Is  laughter-moved,  of  her  red  lips. 

She  moves — all  grace — with  gliding  limbs, 

As  a  white-breasted  cygnet  swims. 

In  her  sweet  childhood,  Emily, 
Was  wild  with  natural  gayety, 
2 


14  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

A  little  creature,  full  of  laughter, 
Who  cast  no  thought  before  or  after, 
And  knew  not  custom  or  its  chains. 
The  dappled  fawns  upon  the  plains, 
The  birds  that  filled  the  morning  skies 
Above  her,  with  their  ecstacies — 
Of  love  and  music  prodigal — 
Were  not  more  gladly  natural. 

But  with  this  childish  merriment, 
Mind,  and  the  ripening  years,  have  blent 
A  thoughtfulness — not  melancholy — 
Which  wins  her  life  away  from  folly ; 
Checking  somewhat  the  natural  gladness, 
But  saved,  by  that  it  checks,  from  sadness — 
Like  clouds,  across  a  May-morn  sailing, 
Which  take  the  golden  light  they  are  veiling. 
She  loves  her  kind,  and  shuns  no  duty, 
Her  virtues  sanctify  her  beauty, 
And  all  who  know  her  say  that  she 
Was  born  for  man's  felicity. 


PROEM.  1 5 


I  know  that  she  was  born  for  mine  ; 
Dearer  than  any  joy  of  wine, 
Of  pomp,  or  gold,  or  man's  loud  praise, 
Or  purple  power,  art  thou  to  me — 
Kind  cheerer  of  my  clouded  ways — 
Young  vine  upon  a  rugged  tree ! 

Maidens  who  love  are  full  of  hope, 
And  crowds  hedge  in  its  golden  scope ; 
Therefore  they  love  green  solitudes 
And  silence  for  their  better  moods. 
I  know  some  wilds  where  tulip  trees, 
Full  of  the  singing  toil  of  bees, 
Depend  their  loving  branches  over 
Great  rocks,  which  honeysuckles  cover 
In  rich  and  liberal  overflow. 
In  the  dear  time  of  long  ago, 
When  I  had  wooed  young  Emily, 
And  she  had  told  her  love  to  me, 
I  often  found  her  in  these  bowers 
Quite  rapt  away  in  meditation, 
Or  giving  earnest  contemplation 
To  leaf,  or  bird,  or  wild- wood  flowers  ; 


16  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

And  once  I  heard  the  maiden  singing, 

Until  the  very  woods  were  ringing — 

Singing  an  old  song  to  the  hours ! 

I  well  remember  that  rare  song, 

It  charged  the  hours  with  cruel  wrong — 

Wrong  to  the  verdure  of  the  boughs — 

Wrong  to  the  lustre  of  fair  brows. 

Its  music  had  a  wondrous  sound, 

And  made  the  greenwood  haunted  ground. 

But  I  delay :  one  jocund  morn — 

A  morn  of  that  blithe  time  of  spring, 

When  milky  blossoms  load  the  thorn, 

And  birds  so  prate,  and  soar,  and  sing, 

That  melody  is  every  where, 

On  the  glad  earth  and  in  the  air — 

On  such  a  morn  I  went  to  seek, 

Through  our  wild  haunts,  for  Emily. 

I  found  her  where  a  flowering  tree 

Gave  odours  and  cool  shade.     Her  cheek 

A  little  rested  on  her  hand  ; 

Her  rustic  skill  had  made  a  band, 

Of  fair  device,  which  garlanded 

The  beauty  of  her  bending  head ; 


PROEM.  17 

Some  maiden  thoughts,  most  kind  and  wise, 
Were  dimly  burning  in  her  eyes. 
When  I  beheld  her — form  and  face 
So  lithe,  so  fair — the  spirit  race, 
Of  whom  the  better  poets  dreamed, 
Came  to  my  thought,  and  I  half  deemed 
My  earth-born  mistress,  pure  and  good, 
Was  some  such  lady  of  the  wood 
As  she  who  worked  at  spell  and  snare, 
With  Huon  of  the  dusky  hair,  « ^  - 

And  fled,  in  likeness  of  a  doe, 
Before  the  fleet  youth  Angelo. 
But  these  infirm  imaginings 
Flew  quite  away  on  instant  wings. 
I  called  her  name.     A  swift  surprise 
Came  whitely  to  her  face,  but  soon   . 
It  fled  before  some  daintier  dyes, 
And,  laughing  like  a  brook  in  June, 
With  sweet  accost  she  welcomed  me ; 
And  I  sate  there  with  Emily. 
The  gods  were  very  good  to  bless 
My  life  with  so  much  happiness 
2* 


18  FROISSART  BALLAD!?. 

The  maiden  on  that  lowly  seat — 

I  sitting  at  her  little  feet ! 

Two  happier  lovers  never  met 

In  dear  and  talk-charmed  privacy. 

It  was  a  golden  day  to  me, 

And  its  great  bliss  is  with  me  yet, 

Warming,  like  wine,  my  inmost  heart — 

For  memories  of  happy  hours 

Are  like  the  cordials  pressed  from  flowers, 

And  madden  sweetly. 

I  impart 

Naught  of  the  love-talk  I  remember, 
For  May's  young  pleasures  are  best  hid 
From  the  cold  prudence  of  December, 
Which  clips,  and  chills,  all  vernal  wings  ; 
And  love's  own  sanctities  forbid, 
Now,  as  of  old,  such  gossippings 
In  hall,  of  what  befalls  in  bower. 
But  other  matters  of  the  hour, 
Of  which  it  breaks  no  faith  to  tell, 
My  homely  rhyme  shall  chronicle. 


PROEM.  19 

As  silently  we  sate  alone — 

Our  love-talk  spent — two  mated  birds 

Began  to  prate  in  loving  tone  ; 

Quoth  Emily,  "  They  sure  have  words  ! 

Didst  hear  them  say  «  My  sweet?  l  My  dear''  ?" 

And  as  they  chirped,  we  laughed  to  hear. 

Soon  after  this  a  southern  wind 

Came  sobbing,  like  a  hunted  hind, 

Into  the  quiet  of  the  glen. 

The  maiden  mused  awhile,  and  then 

Worded  her  thought  right  playfully. 

"  These  winds,"  she  said,  "  of  land  and  sea, 

My  friend,  are  surely  living  things 

That  come  and  go  on  unseen  wings. 

The  teeming  air,  and  prodigal, 

Which  droops  its  azure  over  all, 

Is  full  of  immortalities 

That  look  on  us  with  unseen  eyes. 

This  sudden  wind  that  hath  come  here, 

With  its  low  sobs  of  pain  or  fear, 


20  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

It  may  be  is  a  spirit  kind 

That  loves  the  bruised  flowers  to  bind, 

Whose  task  it  is  to  shake  the  dew 

From  the  sad  violet's  eye  of  blue, 

Or  chase  the  honey-making  thieves 

From  off  the  rose,  and  shut  its  leaves 

Against  the  cold  of  April  eves. 

Perhaps  its  dainty,  pink-tipt,  hands 

Have  plied  such  tasks  in  far-off  lands, 

And  now,  perchance,  some  grim  foe  follows 

The  little  wight  to  these  green  hollows." 

Such  gentle  words  had  Emily 

For  the  south  wind  in  the  tulip  tree. 

A  runnel,  hidden  by  the  trees, 

Gave  out  some  natural  melodies. 

She  said  "  The  brook  among  the  stones 

Is  solemn  in  its  undertones : 

How  like  a  hymn !  the  singing  creature 

Is  worshipping  the  God  of  Nature." 

But  I  replied,  "  My  dear — not  so ; 

Thy  solemn  eyes,  thy  brow  of  snow, 


PROEM. 

And,  more  than  these,  thy  maiden  merit, 

Have  won  Undine,  that  gentle  spirit, 

To  sing  her  songs  of  love  to  thee." 

Swift  answered  merry  Emily, 

"  Undine  is  but  a  girl,  you  know, 

And  would  not  pine  for  love  of  me ; 

She  has  been  peering  from  the  brook 

And  glimpsed  at  you."     She  said,  and  shook 

With  a  rare  fit  of  silvery  laughter. 

I  was  more  circumspect  thereafter, 

And  dealt  in  homelier  talk.     A  man 

May  call  a  white-browed  girl  Diany 

But  likes  not  to  be  turned  upon, 

And  nick-named  Young  Endymion. 

My  Emily  loved  very  well, 

At  times,  those  ancient  lays  which  tell 

Rude  natural  tales ;  she  had  no  lore 

Of  trouvere  or  of  troubadour, 

Nor  knew  what  difference  there  might  be 

Between  the  tongues  of  oc  and  oui  ; 


21 


22  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

But  hearing  old  tales,  loved  them  all, 
If  truth  but  made  them  natural, 
In  our  good  talks,  we  oft  went  o'er 
The  little  hoard  of  my  quaint  lore, 
Culled  out  of  old  melodious  fable. 
She  little  cared  for  Arthur's  Table, 
For  tales  of  doughty  Launcelot, 
Or  Tristram,  or  of  him  who  smote 
The  giant,  Angoulafre  hight, 
And  moaned  for  love  by  day  and  night  ; 
She  little  cared  for  such  as  these. 
But  if  I  crossed  the  Pyrenees, 
With  the  great  peers  of  Charlemagne 
Descending  toward  the  Spanish  plain, 
Her  eye  would  lighten  at  the  strain. 
And  it  would  moisten  with  a  tear. 
The  sad  end  of  that  tale  to  hear  ; 
How,  all  aweary,  worn,  and  white, 
Urging  his  foaming  horse  amain, 
A  courier  from  the  south,  one  night, 
Reached  the  great  city  of  the  Seine  ; 


PROEM.  23 

*    % 

And  how,  at  that  same  time  and  hour, 
The  bride  of  Roland  lay  in  bower, 
Wakeful,  and  quick  of  ear  to  win 
Some  rumour  of  her  Paladin — 
And  how  it  came,  in  sudden  cries 
That  shook  the  earth,  and  rent  the  skies ; 
And  how  the  messenger  of  fate — 
The  courier  who  rode  so  late — 
Was  dragged  on  to  her  palace  gate ; 
And  how  the  lady  sate  in  hall, 
Moaning,  among  her  damsels  all, 
At  the  wild  tale  of  Ronceval. 
That  story  sounds  like  solemn  truth, 
And  she  would  hear  it  with  such  ruth 
As  sympathetic  hearts  will  pay 
To  moving  griefs  of  yesterday. 

Pity  looked  lovely  in  the  maiden ; 
Her  eyes  were  softer  when  so  laden 
With  the  bright  dew  of  tears  unshed. 
But  I  was  somewhat  envious 
That  other  bards  should  move  her  thus, 
And  oft  within  myself  had  said, 


FROISSART  BALLADS. 

"  Yea — I  will  strive  to  touch  her  heart 
With  some  fair  songs  of  mine  own  art." 
And,  many  days  before  the  day 
Whereof  I  speak,  I  made  assay 
At  this  bold  labour.     In  the  wells 
Of  Froissart's  life-like  chronicles, 
I  dipped  for  moving  truths  of  old. 
A  thousand  stories,  soft  and  bold, 
Of  stately  dames,  and  gentlemen, 
Which  good  Lord  Berners,  with  a  pen 
Pompous  in  its  simplicity, 
Yet  tipt  with  charming  courtesy, 
Had  put  in  English  words,  I  learned ; 
And  some  of  these  I  deftly  turned 
Into  the  forms  of  minstrel  verse. 
I  know  the  good  tales  are  the  worse — 
But,  sooth  to  say,  it  seems  to  me 
My  verse  has  sense  and  melody — 
Even  that  its  measure  sometimes  flows 
With  the  brave  pomp  of  that  old  prose. 

Beneath  our  trysting  tree,  that  day, 
With  dubious  face,  I  read  one  lay. 


PROEM.  25 


Young  Emily  quite  understood 

My  fears,  and  gave  me  guerdon  good 

In  well-timed  praise,  and  cheered  me  on 

Into  full  flow  of  heart  and  tone. 

And  when,  in  days  of  pleasant  weather, 

Thereafter,  we  were  met  together — 

As  our  strong  love  oft  made  us  meet — 

I  always  took  my  cosy  seat 

Just  at  the  damsel's  little  feet, 

And  read  my  tales.     It  was  no  friend 

To  me,  that  day  that  heard  their  end. 

It  had  become  a  play  of  love 

To  watch  the  swift  expression  rove 

Over  the  bright  sky  of  her  face, 

To  steal  those  upward  looks,  and  trace 

In  every  change  of  cheek  and  eye 

The  influence  of  my  poesy. 

I  made  my  verse  for  Emily : 
I  give  it,  reader,  now  to  thee. 
The  tales,  which  I  have  toiled  to  tell, 
Of  dame  in  hall,  and  knight  in  selle, 
3 


26  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

Of  faithful  love,  and  courage  high — 

Bright  flower,  strong  staff  of  chivalry — 

These  tales,  indeed,  are  old  of  date, 

But  why  should  Time  their  force  abate  ? 

Must  we  look  back  with  vision  dull 

On  the  old  brave  and  beautiful — 

All  careless  of  their  joy  or  wo, 

Because  they  lived  so  long  ago  ? 

If  sympathy  knows  but  to-day, 

If  time  quite  wears  its  nerve  away — 

If  deeds  majestically  bold, 

In  words  of  ancient  music  told, 

Are  only  food  for  studious  minds, 

And  touch  no  hearts — if  man  but  finds 

An  abstract  virtue  in  the  faith 

Which  clung  to  truth,  and  courted  death — 

If  he  can  lift  the  dusky  pall 

With  dainty  hand  artistical, 

And  smile  at  woes,  because  some  years 

Have  swept  between  them  and  his  tears — 

I  say,  my  friend,  if  this  may  be, 

Then  burn  old  books  ;  antiquity 


PROEM.  27 

Is  no  more  than  a  skeleton 

Of  painted  vein,  and  polished  bone. 

Reader  !  the  minstrel  brotherhood, 
Earnest  to  soothe  thy  listening  mood, 
Were  wont  to  style  thee  gentle,  good, 
Noble  or  gracious : — they  could  bow 
With  loyal  knee,  yet  open  brow — 
They  knew  to  temper  thy  decision 
With  graces  of  a  proud  submission. 
That  wont  is  changed.     Yet  I,  a  man 
Of  this  new  land  republican, 
Where  insolence  wins  upward  better 
Than  courtesy — that  old  dead  letter — 
And  toil  claims  pay,  with  utterance  sharp, 
Follow  the  good  lords  of  the  harp, 
And  dub  thee  with  each  courtly  phrase — 
And  ask  indulgence  for  my  lays. 


FROISSAKT   BALLADS. 


THE    MASTER    OF   BOLTON 

PART   I. 

YOUNG  GAWEN,  from  his  castle  wall, 
Has  heard  the  merry  mavis  call ; 
But  Gawen  better  loves  to  hark 
The  warble  of  the  morning  lark. 
That  better  bird  is  up  to  meet 
The  sun,  with  music  proud  and  sweet. 
A  wonder  is  the  song  he  sings— 
And  like  the  notes  of  charmed  strings. 
Just  now  his  lay  was  all  of  earth, 
Of  sorrow  intertoned  with  mirth, 
But  now,  triumphant  in  his  steven, 
He  mounts  him  to  the  ruddy  heaven- 
Making  all  humbler  singers  dumb 
With  his  divine  delirium. 
3* 


30  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

Young  Gawen  views  the  fallow  deer 
Peopling  the  wide  park  far  and  near. 
Some  browse  beneath  the  dewy  shades, 
Which  edge  the  sunlight  of  the  glades ; 
And  some  stare  forth  with  earnest  eyes 
To  greet  a  wandering  hart  whose  cries 
Break  on  the  wild  bird's  melodies. 

Kind  nature,  with  a  lavish  hand, 
Had  poured  her  beauties  on  that  land ; 
But  Gawen,  from  his  castle  wall, 
Looked  moodily  upon  them  all. 
For  he  was  born  of  gentle  sires, 
And  in  his  bosom  burned  their  fires, 
And  much  it  chafed  his  pride,  to  be 
Shut  from  the  pale  of  his  degree, 
By  the  base  wants  of  poverty. 
His  sires,  the  knights  of  Bolton,  were 
Masters  of  spreading  lands  and  fair. 
Their  lordly  hold  is  stately  still 
On  the  green  beauty  of  its  hill ; 


THE  MASTER  OF  BOLTON.  31 

But  servitors,  with  busy  din, 
Break  not  the  desert  gloom  within. 
And  over  walls  and  portal  towers 
The  ivy  tod  is  weaving  bowers. 

A  hundred  steeds  once  fed  in  stall : 
One  freckled  gray  is  left  of  all — 
And  he  is  stiff  of  joint  and  lean. 
Once  he  was  swift,  and  strong,  and  keen 
As  ever  bore  knight  in  harnasine. 
White  Raoull  is  his  stately  name, 
And  from  a  foreign  land  he  came. 
The  master's  sire,  by  dint  of  sword, 
Won  the  brave  steed  at  Castle  Nord 
From  Raoull  de  Coucy,  a  Prankish  lord. 

Whilst  Gawen  mused  in  sombre  cheer, 
A  noise  of  hoofs  came  on  his  ear ; 
And  soon  a  goodly  company 
Over  the  lea  came  ambling  by — 
A  horseman  and  two  ladies  gay. 
Flaunting  and  brave  was  their  array, 
And  they  rode  talking  by  the  way. 


32  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

The  master,  as  the  three  drew  on 
Soon  knew  his  neighbour  stout  Sir  John, 
And,  in  the  flaunting  ladies  twain 
His  daughters  Mistress  Meg,  and  Jean. 
A  London  knight  was  sleek  Sir  John 
Who,  lending  gold,"took  lands  in  pawn. 
The  masters  of  Bolton  had  sometime  made 
Acquaintance  with  this  knight  of  trade — 
The  dismal  end  need  scarce  be  said. 
The  Boltons  of  Bolton  have  had  their  day ; 
Their  wide  fair  lands  have  passed  away. 
Park,  and  meadow,  and  wood  and  lea — 
As  far  as  the  circling  hawk  can  see — 
Sir  John  hath  gotten  them  in  fee. 
Ah !  Master  Gawen  brooks  it  ill, 
That  brave  new  mansion  on  the  hill ! 

Ruddy  Sir  John,  with  jingling  rein, 
Ambled  between  his  daughters  twain ; 
Three  spotted  spaniels  ran  before ; 
Each  damsel  on  her  round  wrist  bore 
A  jessed  and  hooded  sparrowhawk. 
I  say  they  cheered  their  way  with  talk, 


THE  MASTER  OF  BOLTON. 

And  it  rose  clearly,  from  the  bent, 
Up  to  the  master,  where  he  leant 
Over  the  frowning  battlement. 

Quoth  Meg,  "  As  proud  as  he  may  be, 

The  master's  hall  looks  beggarly." 

Quoth  stout  Sir  John,  "  I  prithee,  dear, 

Bridle  thy  tongue — the  youth  may  hear." 

But  upspake  Jean,  the  gentler  maid, 

And,  scanning  the  grim  pile,  boldly  said, 

"  Now,  by  my  troth,  were  I  as  he, 

A  brave  man  lost  in  poverty, 

The  world  a  better  tale  should  tell ; 

For  I  would  vault  into  my  selle 

And  shake  my  reins  in  proud  farewell, 

And  bear  my  fortune  on  my  lance 

Over  the  narrow  sea  to  France. 

And  where  brave  deeds  were  to  be  done 

And  lordly  honours  to  be  won, 

Thither  would  I  all  odds  to  brave. 

Better  to  win  a  gallant  grave 

Than  cower  to  fortune  like  a  slave." 


34  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

The  master  turned  him  from  the  wall, 

Nor  hearkened  farther  word. 
He  mused,  and  said,  "  I  live  in  thrall, 

But  I  have  freedom  heard." 
And  more  he  said,  with  kindling  eyes, 
"  The  burgher's  little  maid  is  wise ! 
Yea,  I  will  take  my  sword  and  lance, 
And  ride  into  the  realm  of  France, 
And  find  in  arms  what  meed  I  can, 
For  I  am  but  a  landless  man. 
In  France  my  father  won  high  fame, 
And  honour,  to  the  Bolton  name ; 
And  even  for  his  gallant  sake, 
As  well  as  my  good  way  to  make, 
Will  I  this  journey  undertake." 

And  when  the  news  went  up  and  down 

That  Gawen  for  the  field  was  boune, 

Ten  varlets,  and  a  little  page, 

Out  of  good  love,  and  not  for  wage, 

Gathered  to  Bolton  speedily, 

To  ride  with  him  beyond  the  sea. 


THE  MASTER  OF  BOLTON.  35 

The  varlets  were  stalwart  Kentishmen, 
The  page  was  Philip  Hazelden — 
A  merry  boy,  with  boyish  skill 
To  rob  hard  fortune  of  its  ill. 
The  boy  had  been  a  lady's  page, 
But  that  chain  galled  his  riper  age — 
Such  life  seemed  passing  dull  and  tame, 
And  so  the  truant  fled  his  dame, 
And  valiantly  to  Bolton  came, 
In  velvet  hose,  and  jerkin  trim, 
And  gallant  on  a  palfrey  slim 
Craving,  for  simple  boon,  that  he 
The  valiant  master's  page  might  be. 

Thirty  leagues  below  Calais, 

The  Master  of  Bolton  held  his  way, 

Mounted  upon  his  grim  old  gray. 

White  Raoull  snuffed  the  wind  that  fanned 

His  stately  crest — he  knew  that  land. 

The  pleasant  touch  of  his  native  ground 

Quickened  his  hoofs  to  bold  rebound. 

Too  proud  for  capricole  or  neigh, 

He  yet  went  snorting  by  the  way. 


36  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

And,  comrade  from  the  Kentish  shore, 
A  tercel*  hawk  the  master  bore  : 
A  gallant  bird,  but  now  of  mood 
Chafed  by  the  darkness  of  his  hood. 

The  master  looked  with  thoughtful  eye 

Out  on  the  fields  of  Picardy. 

It  was  the  time  when  autumn  yields 

Her  riches  from  the  browning  fields — 

What  time  the  vineyard  on  the  hill 

Blushes  the  purple  press  to  fill  ; 

But  bare  were  the  lands  of  Picardy, 

For  there  had  been  the  Jacquerie, 

With  the  wild  curse  of  sword  and  fire. 

The  corn  lay  trampled  in  the  mire, 

The  vineyards — pale  and  vine — were  down, 

And  ruin  lay  on  tower  and  town. 

How  sad  to  see  those  lovely  lands 

Made  desolate  by  native  hands  ! 

*  Tercel  or  Tercelet, — the  male  falcon.    The  female  was  gene 
rally  used  in  hawking,  being  larger  and  of  brighter  plumage. 


THE  MASTER  OF  BOLTON.  37 

As  Gawen  rode  in  stately  wise, 
The  sunlight  faded  in  the  skies  ; 
But  wilder  lights  began  to  spread 
Up  to  the  blue  vault  overhead — 
The  baleful  lights  of  dread  Bon  Home. 
So  rode  he  downward  from  the  Somme, 
With  none  to  check  his  valiant  will. 
But  five  leagues  south  of  Abbeville, 
Climbing  a  sudden  ridge,  he  heard 
Sounds  terrible,  and  wild,  and  weird, 
Upswelling  from  the  farther  plain. 
He  checked  his  course  with  instant  rein ; 
And  then  he  said,  "Their  howls  begin : 
These  dread  sounds  are  the  mighty  din 
Of  Laonois  and  Beauvosin. 
The  devils  are  loose ;  but  let  us  ride 
A  little  up  this  good  hill  side." 

They  reached  the  top  and  thence  looked  down. 
Beneath  them  lay  a  burning  town ; 
Spreading  suburbs,  and  girdling  wall —  i 
The  raging  flames  were  over  all. 
4 


38  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

Only  by  fits  the  wind  broke  through 

And  bared  the  town's  red  heart  to  view — 

Showing  the  glare  of  roof  and  spire, 

Through  shifting  lanes  walled  high  with  fire. 

And  strangely  muffled  by  the  flame, 

Wailing  upon  the  south  wind  came, 

With  alternating  fall  and  swell, 

The  wild  alarum  of  a  bell. 

The  shades  of  night  were  darkling  down, 

But  that  red  day  still  lit  the  town, 

And  shed  its  lustres,  luridly, 

Outward  upon  the  heaving  sea 

Of  the  far  crowding  Jacquerie. 

The  master  turned  him  from  the  sight, 
And  saw  a  castle  on  his  right ; 
Westward,  a  league  away,  it  stood 
Rising  above  an  autumn  wood. 
The  forest  shades  lay  dark,  and  deep, 
At  base  of  grisly  tower,  and  keep, 
But,  Blistering  in  the  upper  air, 
Some  turrets  caught  the  ghastly  glare. 


THE  MASTER  OF  BOLTON.  39 

The  master  looked  forth  earnestly, 

And,  "  Comrades,  we  must  make, "  quoth  he, 

"  Yon  castle  strong  our  hostelrie." 

He  stayed  no  farther  word  to  say, 

But  rode  upon  the  westward  way. 

Downward  he  passed  at  gentle  speed, 

And  came  upon  a  little  mead — 

A  meadow  of  the  freshest  green, 

Its  verdure  bright  with  a  dewy  sheen, 

For  there  no  curse  of  strife  had  been — 

And  crossed  the  waters  of  a  rill  : 

But  ere  he  climbed  the  opposing  hill, 

His  way  again  found  check,  for  he 

Heard  in  the  gloaming  suddenly 

The  sounding  strokes  of  a  courser's  feet, 

And  then  was  ware  of  a  horseman  fleet 

Coming  his  slower  course  to  meet. 

He  checked  his  steed,  and  poised  his  lance 

Awaiting  the  horseman's  swift  advance. 

The  coming,  so  heard,  could  not  be  seen, 

For  the  broad  hill  that  rose  between ; 


40  FRO1SSART  BALLADS. 

But  soon  the  rider  drew  in  sight, 
And  Gawen  saw,  in  the  waning  light, 
A  lithe  young  page  on  a  palfrey  white. 
He  rode  on  the  way  with  turning  head, 
And  body  advanced,  as  one  who  fled 
Ghastly,  and  white,  and  all  adread ; 
Nor  did  he  seem  the  band  to  see 
As  he  came  on  so  desperately. 
And  when  as  Gawen  bade  him  stand, 
The  rein  had  well-nigh  left  his  hand. 
But  when  he  marked  the  cavalier 
And  the  mailed  men-at-arms,  his  fear 
Gave  sudden  way  to  bolder  cheer. 

Question  abrupt  brought  quick  reply  ; 
The  page  recounted  speedily 
The  story  of  his  eager  race. 
He  told  the  tale  with  reddening  face ; 
How  a  right  noble  company, 
Lords  and  ladies  of  high  degree, 
Riding  in  strength  for  Brennesville, 
Were  hard  beset  beyond  the  hill — 


THE  MASTER  OF  BOLTON.  41 

The  lords  of  Roos,  and  Monthelesme, 

And  other  lords  of  knightly  fame, 

And  many  a  damosell,  and  dame, 

Lovely  ladies  of  noble  name, 

Beset  in  desperate  case,  pardie, 

By  a  wild  band  of  Jacquerie. 

Quoth  the  young  page,  "  I  held  aloof, 

Then  saved  myself  by  speed  of  hoof." 

"  Craven !"  said  little  Hazelden, 

"  The  cause  of  dames  should  make  us  men" — 

But  the  bold  master  checked  his  say, 

And  turned  the  strange  page  on  his  way : 

Saying  to  all,  "  Good  comrades,  ride  ! 

For,  let  all  evil  chance  betide, 

Foul  breach  it  were  of  honour's  laws 

To  strike  no  blow  in  such  a  cause." 

With  these  bold  words  he  took  the  lead, 

And  urged  White  Raoull  to  his  speed. 

So  Gawen,  with  his  following, 
Drew  on  to  where,  in  stubborn  ring, 

4* 


. 

42  FROISSART  BALLADS. 


Fencing  their  dames  as  best  they  might, 

The  knights  of  France  waged  desperate  fight. 

He  saw  not,  by  the  doubtful  light, 

How  the  ring  held,  but  he  might  mark 

The  foe  in  masses  dense  and  dark 

Beating  its  iron  fence  amain. 

Short  space  the  daring  youth  drew  rein ; 

Swiftly  he  ordered  his  merry  men, 

And  placed  in  the  midst  young  Hazelden, 

(The  stranger  page  had  flown  agen) ; 

Then  signing  the  cross  upon  his  brow, 

And  saying,  "  St.  George  ride  with  me  now  !" 

He  struck  the  sharp  spurs  rowel-deep, 

And,  with  a  cry,  charged  down  the  steep. 

The  dark  crowd  swayed  disorderly 
Even  from  the  master's  battle  cry, 
And  ere  a  lance  bore  stain  of  blood, 
The  nearer  edge  gave  back  a  rood, 
Confusedly  pressing  man  on  man  ; 
But  when  the  deadly  work  began — 


THE  MASTER  OF  BOLTON.  43 

When  full  in  their  midst  the  swift  charge  burst, 

When  lances  ravened  with  fiery  thirst, 

When  stroke  of  sword,  and  plunge  of  horse, 

Bore  their  hardiest  down  perforce, 

The  whole  dense  mass  gave  way  outright, 

And  covered  the  wold  in  howling  flight. 

Stout  Gawen  rode  on  their  rear  apace — 

The  Prankish  knights  joined  in  the  chace ; 

The  moon,  so  ghastly  in  the  air, 

The  wide  sky's  universal  glare 

Lighted  the  rout,  and  clown  on  clown 

Beneath  the  avenging  hands  went  down : 

To  say  the  truth,  for  many  a  rood, 

A  steam  went  up  from  the  shedden  blood. 

And  so  that  noble  Prankish  band — 

Lords  and  ladies  of  the  land — 

Were  won  from  death  and  outrage  dire, 

By  prowess  of  the  wandering  squire, 

Young  Gawen,  and  his  merry-men  bold. 

As  I  have  said,  so  is  it  told  ; 

In  the  true  chronicle,  we  read 

That  Gawen  Bolton  did  that  deed. 


44  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

And  when  the  bloody  chace  was  done, 

The  master  praise  and  honour  won 

From  knightly  tongues  and  radiant  eyes ; 

He  answered  that  his  poor  emprise 

Had  found  most  bountiful  reward — 

It  was  a  man's  best  task  to  guard 

Dames  so  gentle  from  dire  mischance. 

But  then  he  said,  "  My  Lords  of  France, 

In  God's  name  bide  not  longer  here." 

This  counsel  found  right  ready  ear, 

And  the  worn  troop,  without  delay, 

Resumed  its  interrupted  way. 

Ten  men-at-arms  were  reft  of  life : 

A  score  came  wounded  from  the  strife — 

With  bruise  of  club,  and  stab  of  knife — 

But  these  found  life  and  strength  enow, 

To  sit  their  steeds,  and  ride,  I  trow  ; 

Only  the  Lord  of  Reyneval 

Was  lorn  of  strength,  among  them  all, 

To  ride  beyond  those  perilous  bounds, 

And  his  worst  hurt  was  not  of  wounds. 

Time  had  stricken  the  ancient  lord 

With  stroke  more  sure  than  stroke  of  sword. 


THE  MASTER  OF  BOLTON.  45 

But  cloaked,  from  hoary  head  to  spur, 

In  fur  of  stoat,  and  miniver, 

And  propped  by  grooms  upon  his  horse, 

The  old  man  dared  the  darksome  course. 

Some  space  beyond  the  field  of  blood, 

Rose  the  fair  castle  of  the  wood, 

Whose  towers  had  caught  the  master's  eye ; 

But  now  the  urgent  train  swept  by, 

And,  crossing  the  line  of  Normandy, 

Reached  Brennesville,  in  weary  plight,, 

After  the  middle  watch  of  night. 

PART  II. 

It  boots  not  here,  at  length  to  tell, 
In  full  terms  of  the  chronicle, 
How  lords  and  dames,  of  high  degree, 
Used  all  fair  arts  of  courtesy, 
To  win  the  master  to  their  will, 
And  stay  his  course  in  Brennesville : 
How  he  gainsaid  them,  and  would  fain 
Have  journeyed  into  Aquitaine  : 


46  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

But  how  high  revels  bred  delay, 

And  held  him  from  his  southward  way. 

In  the  true  chronicle  we  learn 

That  the  great  lords  made  fair  return 

For  the  brave  stranger's  timely  aid — 

Such  fair  return  as  might  be  made 

By  puissant  lords,  of  fame  and  worth, 

To  a  poor  squire  of  gentle  birth. 

The  bounteous  lord  of  Monthelesme — 

Himself  of  high  chivalric  fame — 

Gave  from  his  stalls  a  sable  steed, 

Renowned  for  courage,  strength,  and  speed. 

Strong  was  Inguerrant  of  body  and  limb, 

The  toils  of  war  were  a  joy  to  him ; 

The  valleys  of  Auvergne  bred  his  sire, 

But  Besarabia  gave  him  fire, 

For  he  was  born  of  a  Servian  dam. 

A  thousand  florins  of  the  Lamb 

The  good  Lord  Roos  gave  graciously — 

A  gift  of  love  and  not  a  fee — 

And  five  full  purses,  of  the  ten, 

The  master  lavished  to  his  men. 


THE  MASTER  OF  BOLTON.  47 

But  the  old  Lord  of  Reyneval, 

The  sooth  to  say,  surpassed  them  all. 

He  gave  a  suit  of  knightly  mail, 

Tempered  to  hue  of  silver  pale, 

Inlaid  with  arabesques  of  gold, 

And  cunning  traceries  manifold — 

All  made  by  a  famous  artisan 

Edme  Paol  of  fair  Milan  :— 

Adding,  with  courteous  intent, 

Some  wealth  of  peaceful  ornament, 

A  loop  of  pearls  and  turquoise  band. 

These  gave  he  by  his  ward's  white  hand  ; 

His  ward,  the  Countess  Jocelind, 

Heiress  of  stately  Rousillon, 

Deigned  in  her  courtesy  to  bind 

The  pearl-loop  to  his  morion, 

And  clasped  the  band  upon  his  throat. 

Her  fine  fair  fingers  thrilled,  I  wot, 

And  the  bold  master  said,  "  It  were 

A  thing  of  less  than  naught  to  dare 

Perils  of  earth,  and  sea,  and  air, 

For  a  love  touch  from  hands  so  white, 

For  a  love  look  from  eyes  so  bright." 


48  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

The  gifts,  I  know,  were  rare  and  proud, 
But  the  good  lords  and  knights  avowed 
To  all  who  heard  their  words,  that  he, 
By  prowess  of  unbought  chivalry, 
Had  rescued  them  from  certain  death 
In  harness  on  that  bloody  heath, 
And  high-born  damosell  and  dame 
From  tortures  of  a  hellish  shame. 

And  then  it  chanced  that,  day  by  day, 
The  valiant  master  made  delay, 
From  trial  of  his  southward  way ; 
Shunning  all  thought  of  fair  Guienne — 
Of  his  great  Prince  and  countrymen — 
Or,  if  he  might  not  shun  the  thought, 
Saying,  "  My  master  needs  me  not, 
For  there  is  present  truce  with  France ; 
If  the  truce  fail,  as  scarce  may  chance, 
Then  will  I  mount  my  steed  agen, 
And  join  his  banner  in  Guienne." 
But,  I  am  bound  to  say  the  truth, 
A  lady's  eyes  enthralled  the  youth — 


THE  MASTER  OF  BOLTON.  49 

The  dark  blue  eyes  of  Jocelind. 

The  days,  like  barques  before  the  wind, 

Flew  swiftly  by ;  and  as  they  passed 

The  spell  grew  complicate  and  fast. 

Sweet  skill  of  undesigned  art 

Fettered  the  strong  man,  limb  and  heart. 

Sore  wrestled  he,  and  stoutly  strove 

For  freedom  from  a  desperate  love : 

But  feeble  eld  is  stronger  far 

To  wage  such  shrewd  and  subtil  war 

Than  youth,  whose  very  fire  and  force 

Plunge  into  toils  beyond  recourse. 

And  so  the  master  tarried  still, 

A  thrall  of  love,  in  Brennesville. 

Meanwhile  the  Duke  of  Normandy* 

Upheld  his  banner,  by  the  sea, 

In  leaguer  of  St.  Valery. 

For  troubles  of  intestine  war — 

Hot  feuds  of  Bourbon  and  Navarre — 

*  Dauphin,  and  Regent  of  France — his  father,  King   John, 
being  prisoner  of  Edward  III.  of  England. 
5 


50  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

Were  rife  in  France,  since  good  King  John, 

His  ransom  merks  unpaid,  had  gone 

Back  to  captivity,  to  bear — 

Worse  than  captivity — despair — 

Uncrowned,  but  kingly  in  his  truth ! 

His  son,  of  Normandy,  a  youth 

Of  gallant  promise,  ruled  his  realm, 

Wearing  for  crown  a  soldier's  helm, 

And  lay,  I  said,  beside  the  sea, 

In  leaguer  of  St.  Valery. 

Proud  Monthelesme  and  Roos  rode  forth 

To  join  his  standard  in  the  North ; 

But  the  sick  Lord  of  Reyneval 

Tarried  behind  in  peaceful  hall. 

The  dames,  deserted  of  their  knights, 
Grew  weary  of  the  tame  delights 
Of  courtly  life,  and  did  decree 
Divertisements  of  falconry. 
And  so  one  autumn  morn  it  chanced 
That,  in  fair  train,  these  ladies  pranced, 
On  gallant  palfreys,  from  a  port, 
To  spend  the  day  abroad  in  sport. 


THE  MASTER  OF  BOLTON.  51 

Gawen  beside  the  countess  went, 

And  all  sweet  cares  and  service  lent. 

The  lady  heard  him,  and  caressed 

A  falcon  tercel  on  her  wrist. 

His  speech,  I  say,  the  lady  heard, 

And  so,  I  trow,  did  the  stately  bird, 

And  shook  his  hooded  head,  and  screamed 

In  recognition  glad,  it  seemed. 

"  Sieur  Gawen,  the  bird,"  said  Jocelind, 

"So  darkened  by  the  hood,  is  blind, 

But  he  is  full  of  joy  to  hear, 

And  know,  his  former  lord  so  near." 

It  was  the  bird  the  master  bore 

Over  sea,  from  the  Kentish  shore. 

The  bird  he  had  flown  in  calm  and  wind 

On  Kent's  broad  wealds  in  earlier  days, 

But  now  hath  given  to  Jocelind : — 

And  she  the  courtesy  repays, 

And  calls  him  by  the  master's  name, 

Which,  sounded  forth  in  mandate  shrill, 

Will  ever  the  falcon's  flight  reclaim, 

And  bend  his  wild  heart  to  her  will. 


52  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

The  haughty  bird  is  willing  thrall, 
And  loves  the  lady's  silver  call. 

Riding  at  amble,  on  a  down, 

A  league  beyond  the  trodden  town, 

Some  object  came  to  Gawen's  ken, 

And  forth  he  called  young  Hazelden. 

"  Come  hither,  boy," — the  master  said. 

The  page  rode  up  unbonneted — 

"  Now  ride  to  yonder  knoll ;  I  deem 

I  saw,  just  now,  a  banner  gleam  ; 

Use  well  thine  eyes."     The  page  turned  rein, 

And  rode  the  distant  knoll  to  gain. 

"  A  comely  page" — said  Jocelind — 

"  And  like  mine  own,  whose  fate  unkind 

I  grieve.     Poor  Huon  !  since  the  night, 

When  thou  didst  find  this  wandering  wight" — 

"  Forget,"  the  modest  master  said, 

"  That  peril,  and  my  feeble  aid. 

But,  noble  lady,  since  the  boy — 

I  trust  he  met  with  no  annoy — 


THE  MASTER  OF  BOLTON.  53 

Hath  scorned  the  lure,  nor  comes  agen, 
Take  thou  fair  Philip  Hazelden. 
For  his  poor  master's  sake,  and  thine, 
The  boy,  I  think,  will  well  incline 
To  serve  thee ;  at  his  tender  age, 
The  child  should  be  a  lady's  page — 
Not  share  the  fortunes  of  my  band." 
The  countess  placed  her  gloved  hand 
Softly  on  Gawen's  arm,  and  smiled ; 
Then  said,  "  Sieur  Gawen,  I  will  take — 
Thy  rare  and  noble  gift — the  child, 
And  guard  him  for  his  master's  sake. 
But  the  boy  loves  such  peril  wild 
Of  camps  and  battle-fields,  and  he 
May  scorn  my  silken  page  to  be." 

Ere  the  good  master  made  reply, 
All  heard  a  merry  signal  cry, 
And  a  swift  heron,  from  a  marsh, 
Mounted,  with  sudden  scream,  and  harsh, 
Beating  the  air  in  wild  alarm. 
Then  hawks  were  cast  from  many  an  arm ; 
5* 


54  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

And  it  was  a  gallant  sight  to  see 
The  fleet  birds  tower  so  valiantly, 
Each  for  the  vanguard  challenging. 
But  none  went  forth  so  swift  of  wing — 
Mounted  so  boldly  on  the  wind, 
As  the  brave  bird  of  Jocelind. 

With  winnow,  and  soar,  he  won  the  height, 

At  point  above  the  quarry's  flight, 

And  balanced  in  air,  and  made  his  stoop ; 

But  the  swift  heron  shunned  the  swoop, 

And,  wheeling  aside,  a  moment  stayed 

Just  over  the  gazing  cavalcade ; 

A  wild-eyed,  terror-stricken  bird, 

The  Kentish  hawk  had  canceliered, 

But  now  drove  back  upon  his  prey, 

Ire-whetted  for  the  fresh  assay. 

The  lady's  heart  with  pity  filled 

The  quarry's  mortal  dread  to  see, 

And,  in  her  gentleness,  she  willed 

To  ward  its  dire  extremity. 

With  uplift  hands,  and  eager  eyes, 

And  cheeks  bereft  of  their  rosy  dyes — 


THE  MASTER  OF  BOLTON.  55 

"  GAWEN,  MY  GAWEN,  COME  BACK,"  she  cried. 

The  hawk,  true  vassal,  turned  aside, 

Doubtful  upon  his  pinions  wide, 

Then,  like  the  servant  of  a  charm, 

Sank  to  his  perch  on  the  lady's  arm. 

The  damsel,  in  her  loveliness, 

Made  lovelier  by  that  kind  distress, 

Repaid  the  bold  bird's  loyalty, 

With  gentleness  of  hand,  and  eye, 

That  silver  call,  so  sweet  to  hear, 

When  will  it  die  on  the  master's  ear  ? 

"  My  Gawen — come  back  !" — the  truth  to  say, 

He  pondered  the  words  for  many  a  day. 

But  he  must  win  from  his  dream  amain, 

His  page  rides  fast  to  join  the  train. 

The  boy's  bright  visage  augured  well 
Of  stirring  news,  and  blithe,  to  tell. 
He  stopped  his  course  at  Gawen's  side ; 
'  "  What  have  your  ousel  eyes  espied  ?" 
"  A  gallant  host,"  the  boy  replied, 
"  A  royal  army,  foot  and  horse." 
And  Gawen  said,  "  The  regent's  force 


56  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

Is  drawing  from  the  northern  sea, 
As  the  news  went,  for  Picardy." 

And  soon  they  mark  the  vanguard  come 
With  trumpet  blast,  and  storm  of  drum ; 
And  proudly  in  the  midst  unrolled, 
Blazoned  with  fleurs  de  Us  of  gold, 
The  royal  standard  woos  the  wind. 
Pennon,  and  pennoncelle  behind, 
And  crest  of  high-born  cavalier, 
And  sheen  of  burnished  helm,  and  spear, 
Along  the  lengthened  lines  appear. 
The  son  of  France  rode  in  the  van, 
With  many  a  stately  gentleman 
Attendant  on  his  presence  high ; 
And  when  the  fair  train  met  his  eye, 
Brief  pause  he  made,  but  left  his  post 
In  vanguard  of  the  moving  host, 
And  joined  the  dames,  with  greeting  fair, 
And  a  glad  port  and  debonair. 
Certes  a  gallant  youth  was  he, 
And  owned  chivalric  fealty, 
To  the  sweet  powers  of  feminie. 


THE  MASTER  OF  BOLTON.  57 

Right  pleasant  were  the  words  he  spake, 
And  many  a  courtly  jest  he  brake 
With  laughing  damosell  and  dame. 
And  so,  returning,  slowly  came 
The  host,  and  train,  to  reach  the  town. 
The  menzy  saw  them  drawing  down, 
And  with  loud  thunders  rent  the  sky, 
In  welcome  of  their  chivalry. 

In  the  true  chronicle  of  old, 
We  find  the  truth  right  fitly  told, 
That  when  the  Dauphin  heard  aright 
Of  Gawen's  deed,  he  dubbed  him  knight ; 
And  that — the  tale  he  heard  so  wrought 
With  his  own  valorous  heart — he  sought 
Sir  Gawen's  service  to  engage, 
At  cost  of  lands,  and  annual  wage. 
To  this,  Sir  Gawen,  courteously, 
Urged  back  his  English  fealty, 
And  still  affirmed  his  purpose  good — 
With  all  fair  show  of  gratitude — 


58  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

To  take  horse  with  his  Kentishmen, 
And  join  the  Black  Prince  in  Guienne. 

But  whilst  Sir  Gawen  held  him  still 
In  the  proud  court  of  Brennesville, 
He  found  a  limner  great  of  skill, 
And  bought  his  art,  with  golden  fee, 
To  paint  a  scene  of  falconry. 
The  limner  painted  Jocelind, 
And  that  fleet  falcon  on  the  wind. 
The  lady's  hands  have  lost  the  rein, 
Which  lies  upon  her  jennet's  mane, 
And  are  uplifted  whitherward 
Her  blue  eyes  fix  their  full  regard ; 
Some  tresses  of  her  flaxen  hair 
Stream  forth  a  little  on  the  air ; 
There  is  no  colour  on  her  cheek, 
Her  quick  lips  seem  to  cry,  not  speak  ; 
And  the  bold  hawk,  with  downward  eye, 
Pauses  to  question  of  her  cry. 
A  shining  legend  on  a  scroll 
Beneath,  gave  meaning  to  the  whole. 


THE  MASTER  OF  BOLTON. 


59 


"  GAWEN,  MY  GAWEN,  COME  BACK  !" — such  were 
The  golden  words  of  the  legend  fair. 

Ere  Gawen  went  on  pilgrimage, 

He  gave  the  picture,  and  his  page, 

To  the  sweet  lady  of  his  love. 

And,  fair  return,  her  broidered  glove 

He  wore  upon  his  basnet  bright. 

The  proudest  dame  may  choose  her  knight — 

Bold  champion  of  her  scarf  or  glove — 

Yet  deign  no  tender  thought  of  love. 

So  Gawen  deemed,  and  dared  not  speak 

The  passion  glowing  on  his  cheek. 

Like  a  Chaldean  to  his  star, 

He  poured  his  worship  from  afar. 

It  boots  not  now,  in  terms,  to  say 
How  the  boy  page  was  loth  to  stay 
Behind,  from  trial  of  that  way. 
Suffice  it,  when  the  knight  took  rein 
For  the  fair  realm  of  Aquitaine, 
Young  Philip  rode  not  with  his  train. 


60  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

Nor  boots  it  now  in  terms  to  tell 
What  on  that  course  the  knight  befell  ; 
Or  how  Black  Edward — far  the  while 
From  solace  of  the  happy  isle — 
Gave  to  his  coming  gladsome  cheer, 
And,  of  his  fatherland  to  hear, 
Much  used  the  knight's  society. 
My  story's  progress  may  not  be 
Diverted  from  that  single  end, 
Whither  its  steps,  impatient,  tend. 

PART  III. 

Attended  by  her  happy  hours, 

The  maiden  May  walks  garlanded ; 
The  earth  is  beautiful  with  flowers, 

And  birds  are  jocund  overhead. 
Wide  valleys,  verdant  from  the  showers, 

By  fertile  cares  of  April  shed, 
Give  promise,  to  the  hungry  towers, 

Of  summer  fruits,  and  autumn  bread. 


THE  MASTER  OF  BOLTON.  61 

Look  forth  upon  the  hills,  and  see 

The  dark-green  umbrage  of  the  vine  ! 
This  year  she  promises  to  be 

A  liberal  mother  with  her  wine. 
And  mark  the  peasants  on  the  lea, 

Dancing,  in  joyous  intertwine 
Of  swift  limbs,  to  the  melody 

Of  dull  tambour,  and  viol  fine. 

Black  Edward,  and  his  isle-born  men, 
Have  crowned  the  brows  of  peace  agen, 
And  given  her  empery  in  Guienne ; 
To  such  fair  land,  to  such  sweet  time, 
Pass  with  the  swift  need  of  my  rhyme. 

The  lists  were  closed  at  Castellon, 

And,  in  a  palace  high 
Builded  beside  the  broad  Dordogne, 

That  flower  of  chivalry — 
Black  Edward — sate,  in  careless  state, 

At  banquet  with  his  knights, 
Discoursing  arms,  and  ladies'  charms, 

Brave  deeds,  and  soft  delights. 
6 


62  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

Alone  of  all  in  banquet  hall, 

Sir  Gawen's  troubled  eyne 
Denied  the  power  of  that  high  hour, 

Its  flow  of  mirth  and  wine. 
"  Thou  cloud  upon  our  fellowship  !" 

Such  words  his  master  said, 
"  What  care  is  this  upon  thy  lip 

To  scorn  the  wine  so  red  ?" 
Then  Gawen  made  this  answer  true, 

"  Ah  !  sire,  some  words  of  thine 
Have  lent  the  bitterness  of  rue 

Unto  the  ruddy  wine. 
Virgilius  sings  of  one  who  shot 

An  arrow  at  the  sky, 
And  I,  with  like  audacious  thought, 

Have  aimed  my  love  too  high." 
Bold  answer  made  the  Prince,  and  laughed — 

"  If  she,  who  quells  thy  glance, 
Sits  perched  too  high  for  flight  of  shaft, 

Essay  her  with  thy  lance. 
Virgilius  was  a  troubadour 

Of  excellent  renown ; 


THE  MASTER  OF  BOLTON.  63 

But,  nathless,  brave  deeds  are  a  lure 

To  win  a  princess  down. 
Take  instance  from  another  bard ! 

A  squire  of  low  degree, 
By  prowess,  won  young  Ermingarde, 

Princess  of  Hungary." 

The  Prince  so  answered  and  confessed 
The  swift  wine's  power :  ungirded  vest — 
Bold  cheeks  empurpled  by  the  dyes 
Of  jocund  Bacchus — glittering  eyes — 
And  volant  speech — gave  token  free 
Of  the  blithe  god's  supremacy. 

Meantime  a  warder  paced  in  state, 
Clanking  before  the  palace  gate, 
And  humming,  as  he  paced,  a  lay 
Of  the  good  island  far  away. 
The  notes  were  sad  as  sad  could  be, 
For  the  brave  warder  Willoughby 
Had  looked  upon  the  northern  star 
And  thought  him  of  his  home  afar, 


64  FROISSAIIT  BALLADS. 

His  home  by  silver  Wye's  fair  side ; 

And — softened  from  his  warrior  pride — 

Of  one  who  might  have  been  his  bride, 

But  for  the  wildness  of  his  youth. 

He  sang,  and  sighed — and  said,  "  Sweet  Ruth ! 

There  was  a  time  when  thou  and  I 

Were  happy  on  the  banks  of  Wye ; 

But  wayward  was  my  youth  and  blind — 

I  broke  thy  gentle  heart  and  kind. 

Idle  the  wish,  and  worse  than  vain, 

But  would  that  day  were  back  again  !" 

And  tears  bedimmed  the  warder's  sight, 

As  he  looked  far  into  the  night, 

To  watch  the  loadstar's  silver  light. 

Whilst  the  stout  warder  paced  in  state, 

Wheeling  before  the  palace  gate, 

And  mused  his  exile  lot  aright, 

A  horseman  shouted  from  the  night. 

The  warder  bade  him  errand  show, 

And  stayed  his  own  proud  pace  and  slow, 

Fitting  an  arrow  to  his  bow. 


THE  MASTER  OF  BOLTON. 


65 


But  the  free  rider  blithely  spake 

"  Yon  red  lights  show  a  princely  wake : 

Say  if  the  knight  of  Bolton  be 

At  banquet  with  the  chivalry." 

"  That  knight  is  at  the  wassail  now," 

Said  Willoughby,  "  but  who  art  thou  ?" 

Lightly  the  stranger  left  his  steed — 

A  noble  boy  in  way  worn  weed — 

And  pressed  his  suit,  that  he,  with  speed, 

Might  pass  the  gates — for  that  he  bore 

Hot  errand  to  the  knight :  much  more 

His  quick  speech  urged,  and  Willoughby 

Gave  to  the  stranger  entrance  free. 

"  Master" — a  voice  of  slender  sound 
Reached  Gawen's  ear  :  he  turned  him  round. 
The  low  sweet  voice  he  heard  agen. 
It  was  fair  Philip  Hazelden. 
And  now  he  stands,  with  beaming  eyes, 
Silent  before  the  knight's  surprise. 
Amidst  the  flow  of  wine,  it  seemed 
To  good  Sir  Gawen  that  he  dreamed. 
6* 


66  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

But  this  soon  passed,  and  in  his  joy 

The  knight  embraced  the  gentle  boy. 

"  Dear  child,"  he  said,  "  show  now  to  me 

Why  thou  art  come  from  Normandy." 

And  Philip  gave  into  his  hands, 

A  casket  small  with  burnished  bands. 

A  touch  soon  drew  the  bands  asunder, 

And  then  Sir  Gawen  saw,  with  wonder, 

The  picture,  which  the  limner's  skill 

Had  whilome  made  in  Brennesville. 

He  marks  the  Lady  Jocelind — 

Her  pity-beaming  eyes — her  hair 

A  little  streaming  on  the  air : 

He  marks  the  falcon  on  the  wind — 

Then  letters  of  that  legend  fair : 

"  GAWEN — MY  GAWEN — COME  BACK  !" — I  trow 

The  words  have  flushed  Sir  Gawen's  brow. 

He  marks  them  clearly  by  the  gleam 

Of  the  brave  torches  :  doth  he  dream  ? 

Doth  that  proud  lady  of  the  land 

Utter  to  him  the  sweet  command 


THE  MASTER  OF  BOLTON.  67 

To  come  again  7     Her  messenger 
Perchance  may  prove  interpreter. 
He  turned  him  swiftly  to  the  youth. 
"  Dear  boy,"  he  said,  "  say  out  the  truth." 
And  the  page  said  with  earnest  tone, 
Which  reached  Sir  Gawen's  ear  alone, 
"  My  lady  lies  in  grievous  wo, 
And,  in  her  sorrow,  bids  me  show 
To  brave  Sir  Gawen  that  her  fate 
Will  poorly  brook  his  coming  late. 
The  dying  Lord  of  Reyneval 
Is  vowed  to  hold  a  tourney  high, 

Open  to  all 

True  chivalry 

Of  England,  Alemaigne,  and  France ; 
And,  guerdon  to  the  winning  lance 
In  combat  waged  at  utterance, 
He  firmly  saith  his  ward  shall  be. 
For  he  is  in  extremity 
Of  feeble  age,  and  France  is  torn 

By  discord  dire ; 


68  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

He  will  not  leave  the  damsel  lorn, 

And  meet  her  sire 

Beyond  the  gates  of  death,  which  now 
Ope  for  him,  with  a  broken  vow 

Vile  on  his  soul; 
And  so  fair  field  he  will  allow 

And  free  control 
Of  the  good  laws  of  chivalry ; 
And  he  who  doth  most  valiantly, 
Shall  win  the  maid,  and  wide  fair  lands, 
And  he  will  gild  the  nuptial  bands 
With  added  wealth — for  love,  not  hate, 
Hath  urged  such  course  his  ward  to  mate. 

"  And  the  sad  lady  bids  me  say, 
In  such  fair  phrases  as  I  may, 
That,  if  she  errs  not  of  thy  love, 
And  thou  wouldst  win  the  hand  whose  glove 
Is  on  thy  basnet,  thou  must  haste. 
Something  she  said  of  maiden  chaste 
Constrained  by  fate  such  words  to  speak ; 
And  blushes  deepened  on  her  cheek ; 


THE  MASTER  OF  BOLTON.  69 

She  knew  not  what  thyself  might  deem, 

And  feared  such  course  would  ill  beseem 

A  maiden  in  her  purity : 

But  her  true  heart,  and  destiny, 

Bade  her  forget  observance  fine 

And  rest  her  feeble  hand  in  thine." 

A  red  light  streamed  from  Gawen's  eyes, 

His  visage  burned  with  sanguine  dyes. 

Himself,  to  hark,  he  did  command, 

But  crushed  a  goblet  in  his  hand. 

And,  when  the  tale  was  said,  the  boy 

He  seized,  and  wrought  him  sore  annoy 

With  fury  of  his  glad  embrace. 

"  Now,  by  our  blessed  Lady's  grace  I" 

He  cried,  "  the  tale  thou  tellest,  child, 

Hath  reft  my  sense,  and  made  me  wild. 

Thou  art  a  herald  brighter  far 

Than  the  blithe  morning's  vaward  star, 

And  well  hast  driven  my  gloom  away 

With  golden  promise  of  the  day." 

"  My  Prince !" — he  bowed  at  Edward's  knee  — 

*'  My  Prince,  I  crave  a  boon  of  thee. 


70  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

I  read  not  with  my  glooming  eye 
The  omen  of  thy  counsel  high, 
But  now  may  read ;  it  well  may  chance 
That  I,  even  I,  with  humble  lance, 
Wreathed  by  no  splendours  of  renown, 
Shall  win  my  lofty  lady  down." 

The  board  was  hushed,  and  Gawen  told 

The  truth,  with  joyous  lip  and  bold, 

To  the  brave  Prince,  and  knights  in  hall — 

How  the  good  Lord  of  Reyneval 

Was  vowed  to  hold  a  tourney  high, 

Free  to  the  gentle  chivalry 

Of  England,  Alemaigne,  and  France ; 

And  guerdon  to  the  winning  lance, 

In  combat  waged  at  utterance, 

Would  yield — he  paused  ere  more  he  said, 

And  his  brow  darkened  from  its  red  : 

But  he  spake  on — "  For  guerdon  good, 

Prize  to  the  stoutest  man  at  arms — 

Perchance  some  soldier,  stern  and  rude — 

That  lord  will  yield  the  maid,  whose  charms 


THE  MASTER  OF  BOLTON. 

Are  my  soul's  star.     Grant,  sire,  that  I 
May  ride  to  win  that  prize,  or  die." 

The  Prince  unclasped  his  ruff's  fine  band, 
Then  leant  his  cheek  upon  his  hand, 
And  read  Sir  Gawen  with  an  eye 
Wise  with  the  wine's  solemnity. 
"  1  doubt,"  he  said,  "  if  knightly  laws 
Should  gild  success  in  such  a  cause. 
A  bugle  horn  may  fitly  be 
Prize  in  a  game  of  archerie; 
A  runlet,  and  a  Lincoln  gown 
Guerdon  the  strife  of  clown  with  clown. 
But,  by  St.  George  !  it  seems  not  well 
That  a  true-hearted  damosell, 
In  modesty  of  maidenhood, 
Should  bide  the  fate  of  jousting  rude. 
When  the  first  Romans  won  that  course 
In  tourney  with  the  Sabine  horse, 
Each  knight,  for  guerdon  of  his  game, 
Seized  to  himself  a  Sabine  dame. 


71 


72  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

But  this,  sir  knight,  the  clerks  agree, 
Covered  the  Roman  chivalry 
With  the  world's  scorn  and  infamy. 
I  know  it  is  the  wont  of  France 
To  hang  such  issues  on  the  lance, 
Also  of  lands  beyond  the  Rhine — 
That  river  of  the  sapient  vine  ; 
But  nathless,  in  our  better  land, 
We  win  not  so  a  lady's  hand. 
Seeking  the  hand,  we  wile  the  heart 
With  strategies  of  manly  art. 
Besides,  such  wooing  of  the  sword 
Binds  shrewish  mate  to  wretched  lord."' 

He  ceased:  Sir  Gawen  spake  more  low, 
And  the  full  truth  essayed  to  show. 
Black  Edward  heard  him,  and  replied — 
"  If  thou  may'st  win  a  willing  bride, 
Get  thee  to  horse,  good  knight  and  tried ; 
And,  certes,  of  these  gentlemen, 

A  band  will  ride, 
To  prove  the  prowess  of  Guienne 

By  Seine's  fair  side. 


THE  MASTER  OF  BOLTON.  73 

The  friend  of  Edward  should  not  be 

A  needy  child  of  errantry, 

And  leave  his  court,  to  journey  forth 

Like  a  Scots  horseman  of  the  north. 

Strife  for  the  maid  of  Rousillon — 

Sir  Gawen's  mistress — be  his  own. 

The  knights  of  France — none  worthier  live 

In  any  land — will  doubtless  give 

To  all,  such  entertainment  good 

Of  arms,  and  feats  of  hardihood, 

As  well  may  stay  the  sturdiest  mood. 

By  my  own  knighthood !  I  would  fain 

Myself  join  stout  Sir  Gawen's  train, 

And  leave  my  cares  of  Aquitaine 

To  hark  the  bugles  of  the  Seine." 

And  the  brave  knights,  with  blithe  accord, 

Welcomed  the  fair  speech  of  their  lord, 

With  thunders  of  the  banquet  board. 

Felton,  La  Poule,  and  Percy  bold — 
So  is  the  old  true  story  told — 
7 


74  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

With  other  knights  of  good  renown, 
By  the  next  midday  left  the  town. 
Sir  Gawen  went  upon  the  way, 
Mounted  upon  his  stately  gray. 
The  sable  steed,  with  haughty  tread, 
Came  after,  by  a  stout  groom  led : — 
A  charger  worthy  to  uphold 
A  monarch,  when  his  crown  of  gold 
Totters  upon  his  royal  brows, 
And  he  arrays,  with  muttered  vows, 
The  broken  remnants  of  his  host 
From  turmoil  of  a  battle  lost, 
To  dare,  in  storm  of  final  strife, 
Issues  of  empire,  death,  and  life. 

So  journeying  earnestly,  the  band 
Drew  freely  to  the  northern  land ; 
And  by  the  way,  brave  rumours  heard— 
For  the  wide  country  side  was  stirred — 
Of  open  lists,  and  knightly  sport, 
In  presence  of  the  Regent's  court, 
At  the  good  town  of  Bar-by-Seine. 
The  earnest  horsemen  rode  amain — 


THE  MASTER  OF  BOLTON.  75 

Their  swift  desire  brooked  small  delay — 
And  soon  drew  on  to  Fontenay. 
There  heard  they  certain  news  at  last 
That  three  days  of  the  jousts  were  past ; 
That  Eustace,  Lord  of  Saimpi,  held 
Possession  of  the  listed  field. 
That  lord  had  done  his  devoir  well ; 
Himself  scarce  shaken  in  his  selle, 
His  lance  nine  knights  had  overthrown — 
To  bide  his  mighty  brunt  was  none. 
And,  with  the  news,  came  doubtful  tale 
Of  sorrows  of  the  maiden  pale, 
Young  Jocelind  of  Rousillon, 
For  whose  fair  hand  such  course  was  run. 
For  five  days  were  the  jousts  decreed, 
Three  days  were  past,  and  urgent  need 
Was  now  to  press  their  way  with  speed. 

Past  Cravant,  riding  in  the  land 
Of  fair  Champaign,  the  English  band, 
Worn  by  the  route,  made  brief  delay 
At  a  good  hostel  by  the  way. 


76  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

Biding  to  mend  their  travel's  want, 
The  knights  sent  on  a  pursuivant, 
To  Charles,  the  Regent,  to  declare 
Their  near  approach,  and  purpose  fair. 

The  lists  were  ordered,  on  a  plain, 
A  little  north  of  Bar-by-Seine, 
And  now,  what  time  the  band  delay 
At  the  good  hostel  by  the  way, 
The  barriers  of  the  lists  are  down, 
And  Charles  comes  riding  from  the  town. 
Hark  to  the  trumpet's  shrill  fanfare, 
And  the  glad  shouts  that  rend  the  air ! 
The  sun  is  at  his  midday  height, 
But  fleecy  clouds  half  veil  his  light ; 
And  breathing  freshly  of  the  main, 
A  far-flown  wind  sighs  up  the  Seine. 
So  the  glad  riders  all  will  say 
Some  words  in  honour  of  the  day, 
As  marshalled  onward  by  the  din 
They  pass,  in  state,  the  lists  to  win. 


THE  MASTER  OF  BOLTON.  77 

The  Regent  on  his  hackney  goes, 
Crowned  with  a  chaplet  of  the  rose. 
Such  sportive  wreath  suits  better  far 
Than  crown  of  state,  or  helm  of  war 
With  the  soft  beauty  of  his  brow. 
And  all  who  mark  him  will  avow 
That  fate  ne'er  bound  the  weightier  care 
Of  a  realm's  rule  on  locks  so  fair. 
And  stern  men  note  his  girlish  bloom, 
Mating  so  well  with  rose  and  plume,    > 
And,  softened  from  their  sternness,  say 
"  Now  let  him  win,  whenas  he  may, 
Pastime  in  sportive  holiday, 
And  his  proud  ringol  put  away. 
Our  royal  boy  is  wise  with  youth, 
And  well  eludes  the  colder  truth — 
Cheating  his  cares,  which  are  his  foes, 
With  sweet  deceptions  of  the  rose." 

So  passing  on  his  hackney  stout, 
Charles  led  the  vanguard  of  the  rout, 
And  reached  the  lists  ;  then  left  his  steed, 
With  a  right  gallant  grace,  to  lead 

7* 


78  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

The  white-browed  maid  of  Rousillon, 

Queen  of  the  tourney,  to  her  throne. 

Pale  as  a  white  flower  is  her  cheek — 

Pale  and  without  one  ruddy  streak  ; 

Her  eyes  are  sad,  but  stern  and  proud — 

Sad  with  a  sorrow  unavowed — 

Stern  with  a  strength  of  heart  unbowed. 

From  her  sweet  lips,  of  late  so  bright, 

Gone  are  the  roses  of  delight. 

The  subtil  tide  which  late  distained 

Their  ripeness,  wearying  cares  have  drained, 

And  their  wan  lines  are  much  compressed 

With  stern  resolve  and  wild  unrest. 

Pray  God  the  damsel's  dark-blue  eyes 

May  sparkle  soon  in  happier  wise, 

And  cheek  and  lip  win  back  their  dyes. 

PART    IV. 

Before  his  tent  Lord  Saimpi  stood, 

And  scornfully  did  say — 
"  Small  hope  is  there,  by  holy  rood ! 

Of  knightly  sport  to-day. 


THE  MASTER  OF  BOLTON.  79 

Will  none  of  all  take  heart  of  grace 

To  meet  my  swift  career  1 
This  countess,  sure,  is  dark  of  face, 

Or  I  have  bred  a  fear. 
Go,  page,  and  bid  my  bugler  sound 

A  blast  upon  his  horn." 
He  cast  a  jeering  look  around — 

He  spake  the  words  in  scorn. 

Of  willing  knights,  who  heard,  I  trow, 

There  was  not  any  want, 
And  many  a  scowl,  and  bended  brow 

Answered  Lord  Saimpi's  vaunt. 
Much  burned  the  lusty  bachelours 

The  boastful  knight  to  tame ; 
But  they  were  bound  by  their  amours, 

And  might  not  dare  the  game. 
Upspake  the  Regent — "  Is  there  none 

The  course  will  undertake, 

k 

And  meet  this  doughty  champion 
For  the  sweet  lady's  sake?" 


80  FR01SSART  BALLADS. 

Even  as  he  spoke,  a  winded  horn 
Rang  out  with  sudden  sound, 

And  a  stout  courier,  travel-worn, 
Entered  the  listed  ground. 

"  Now,  courier,  say  whence  comest  thou — 

What  errand  dost  thou  bear  ?" 
Answer  he  made  with  covered  brow, 

Nor  deigned  he  preface  fair. 
Much  lacked  the  wight  of  courtesy, 

He  cast  no  word  away, 
But,  upright  in  his  saddle  tree, 

Right  stoutly  said  his  say. 
"  Lord  Arundel,  Sir  John  Cathore, 

Of  England,  Sieur  Herchaunce 
Of  Rhineland,  from  the  northern  shore 

Draw  on  to  break  a  lance — 
If  France  so  will  it — in  the  game 

For  a  fair  lady's  hand, 
Whereof  advertisement  of  fame 

Hath  reached  the  northern  land." 


THE   MASTER  OF  BOLTON.  81 

"  Now,  Lord  of  Clary  !  speed  thee  well — 

Ride  with  a  gallant  train, 
And  greet  the  good  Lord  Arundel, 

And  greet  his  comrades  twain. 
Fail  nothing  of  our  state,  pardie — 

Stint  nothing  of  their  due ; 
In  honours  of  a  welcome  free 

Be  thou  our  vicar  true." 
Even  as  he  spoke,  a  winded  horn 

Rang  out  with  sudden  sound : 
Again  a  horseman,  travel-worn, 

Entered  the  listed  ground. 

"  Now,  horseman,  say  whence  comest  thou — 

What  errand  dost  thou  bear  ?" 
Answered  the  wight  with  reverent  brow, 

And  after  preface  fair — 
"  My  masters,  gallant  gentlemen 

Of  the  Duke  Edward's  court, 
Have  journeyed  hither  from  Guienne 

For  share  of  knightly  sport. 


FROISSART  BALLADS. 

The  knights  of  Felton,  Parthenay, 

La  Poule,  and 'Percy  tried, 
Sir  Godfrey  Hall,  Sir  Walter  Grey, 

Have  deigned,  for  love,  to  ride — 
Hopeful  of  enterprise — in  train 

Of  a  most  worthy  knight, 
Young,  but  of  note  in  Aquitaine, 

Sir  Gawen  Bolton  hight. 
The  gentle  knights  now  make  delay 
At  a  near  hamlet  by  the  way, 
And  bade  me  ride  thus  much  to  say." 

Quoth  Charles,  "  This  purse  of  ruddy  gold 
Take  thou,  for  fair  news  fairly  told. 
Felton,  La  Poule,  and  Parthenay, 
Percy,  stout  Hall,  and  Walter  Grey, 
Renown  hath  loudly  bruited  them ! 
But  Edward  hath  no  goodlier  gem, 
In  the  bright  ring  of  valour,  which 
Engirds  his  state  with  lustre  rich, 
Than  Gawen  Bolton,  trusty  knight. 
We  read  the  gentleman  aright 


THE  MASTER.  OF  BOLTON.  83 

Some  months  agone ;  good  fortune  made 

His  prowess  instrument  of  aid 

To  many  here,  who  now  will  show 

Their  love  in  grateful  overflow. 

Brave  Lord  of  Clisson  !  make  array, 

And  go  thou  forth  upon  the  way 

With  a  proud  train  of  gentlemen, 

To  meet  the  worthies  of  Guienne. 

And  bear  in  mind,  right  trusty  lord — 

What  Christian  lands,  with  fair  accord, 

Avow  unquestioned  truth  to  be — 

That  the  sweet  virtue  courtesy 

Hath  chosen  our  Prankish  hearts  for  bowers, 

Wherein  to  rear  her  loveliest  flowers." 

I  ween  the  maid  of  Rousillon — 
Bending,  to  listen,  from  her  throne — 
Heard,  with  a  flutter  of  the  heart, 
The  messenger  his  tale  impart, 
Sir  Gawen's  name  wrought  like  a  spell 
The  maiden's  dire  despair  to  quell. 


84  FROISSAR.T  BALLADS. 

To  God  in  heaven,  with  upward  gaze, 
And  aspect  beaming  with  the  rays 
Of  a  sweet  trembling  hope,  she  prays, 
As  one  late  rescued  from  despair, 
And  heart-assured  of  granted  prayer. 
If  her  fair  thought  had  utterance  won 
Thus  would  its  hopeful  speech  have  run — 
"  Sir  Gawen's  heart  is  true  and  bold, 
And,  cased  in  armour  manifold, 
Of  a  good  cause,  can  take  no  harm ; 
And  stalwart  is  the  knight  of  arm, 
Sturdy  in  brunt  of  man  and  horse, 
And  skill'd  to  run  chivalric  course. 
Love,  kind  to  all  who  love — the  right, 
Dear  to  high  heaven — his  own  proud  might, 
These  to  my  heart,  so  beating,  bear 
Assurance  strong  of  issue  fair." 

And  ere  the  lady's  courage  fell 
From  the  high  tone  it  held  so  well, 
The  gentlemen  of  Aquitaine 
Appeared  in  distance  on  the  plain. 


THE  MASTER  OF  BOLTON.  85 

The  knights  had  taken  respite  brief — 
For  dalliance  wrought  Sir  Gawen  grief — 
And,  mounting,  came  so  close  behind 
Their  messenger,  that  as  the  wind 
Shifted  to  meet  them,  they  might  hear 

The  hoof-strokes  of  his  swift  career. 

v 

Under  proud  escort  of  a  band, 
The  noblest  of  the  Prankish  land, 
The  knights  of  merry  England  came. 
Welcome  of  lord  and  smile  of  dame, 
And  flying  tongues  subdued  of  tone, 
As  the  proud  men-at-arms  drew  on, 
Greeted  their  presence  graciously. 
In  van  of  all,  great  Normandy 
Expended  many  a  phrase  of  love, 
The  fulness  of  his  joy  to  prove. 
At  stately  height  among  the  rest, 
His  mistress  saw  Sir  Gawen's  crest, 
And  caught  the  triumph  of  his  eye, 
And  read  the  silent  speech,  whereby 


86  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

He  spake  his  gallant  hope  and  love. 
She  saw,  and  read  the  truth,  and  strove 
Dominion  of  her  mood  to  gain  ; 
But  the  sweet  lady  strove  in  vain. 
Her  utmost  art  might  not  repress 
Tears  of  a  hopeful  happiness. 
Love,  in  a  gentle  nature,  rears 
His  home  beside  the  fount  of  tears, 
And  scouts  the  art  which  fain  would  quell 
The  sweet  flow  of  the  crystal  well. 

The  English  cavaliers  were  spent 
With  the  way's  toil,  and  Charles,  intent 
To  do  them  pleasure,  did  adjourn 
All  feats  of  arms  until  the  morn. 
But  for  my  lengthened  lay,  I  fain 
Would  say  how  sped  in  Bar-by-Seine 
A  night  of  revel ;  how  the  day 
Broke  timeless  in  on  banquet  gay  ; 
How  Arundel — who  reached  the  town 
An  hour  before  the  sun  went  down, 
With  John  Cathore,  and  stout  Herchaunce,- 
Surpassed  the  gayest  wits  of  France, 


THE  MASTER  OF  BOLTON.  87 

And,  solemnly  installed  high-priest 
Of  the  blithe  wine-god,  ruled  the  feast 
Until  the  lighting  of  the  east. 
Sir  Gawen  feasted  not  that  night, 
But  husbanded  his  force  aright. 
At  dawn,  ere  yet  the  festive  mirth 
Had  found  an  end,  he  sallied  forth, 
Saw  that  his  steeds  were  brave  of  trim, 
Healthful  of  mettle  and  of  limb ; 
And  then,  returning,  meekly  made 
His  orisons  for  Mary's  aid ; 
And,  after,  with  observance  shrewd, 
His  knightly  arms  and  armour  viewed, 
For  more  to  him  than  death  and  life 
Rested  on  issue  of  the  strife. 

I  know  not  if  the  earnest  knight 
Passed  greeting  with  his  lady  bright. 
But,  rumour  said,  the  Kentish  page, 
With  sober  step,  and  aspect  sage, 
Did  pass,  and  errand  seem  to  bear 
Betwixt  the  knight  and  lady  fair. 


88  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

Now  to  fair  field !  with  mandate  loud 

Heralds  make  order  in  the  crowd, 

And  clear  free  space  for  man  and  steed. 

The  last  day  of  the  five  decreed 

Is  climbing  onward  to  its  noon : 

The  knightly  sports  will  ope  full  soon. 

Where,  orderly,  the  crowd  divides, 

Into  the  lists  Sir  Gawen  rides 

Manful  upon  his  charger  black  ; 

Percy  and  Hall  ride  at  his  back, 

And  the  bold  three  pass  slowly  round 

The  circle  of  the  tourney  ground, 

Beneath  the  eyes  of  ladies  gay, 

Greeting  and  greeted  by  the  way. 

This  done,  Sir  Gawen  did  desire 

Stout  Thomelyn  of  Kent,  his  squire, 

To  strike  Lord  Saimpi's  shield  in  sign 

Of  gage  accepted.     Thomelyn 

Drew  to  the  lord's  pavilion, 

Where,  glistering  bravely  in  the  sun, 

The  broad  shield  hung :  and,  winning  near, 

Smote  on  its  face,  with  point  of  spear. 


THE  MASTER  OF  BOLTON.  89 

Lord  Saimpi  issued  forth  with  speed, 
And  donned  his  helm,  and  took  his  steed. 

Now  Gavven  Bolton !  fortune  yield 

To  love,  and  to  the  right, 
The  shelter  of  her  magic  shield ; 

There  is  no  sturdier  knight, 
In  the  wide  realm  of  lovely  France, 

Or  any  Christian  land, 
Than  Saimpi's  lord — in  war  of  lance, 

Or  battle-axe  and  brand. 
But  the  stout  islander,  I  trow, 

Has  not  a  heart  to  faint ; 
In  hope,  not  fear,  he  made  his  vow 

To  his  kind  patron  saint. 
Once  looked  he  to  the  golden  sun — 

Once  to  his  lady  dear — 
Then  like  a  willing  champion, 

Took  ground  for  his  career. 

At  signal  of  a  bugle  blast, 
Sharp  and  of  sudden  sound, 


90  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

The  knights  set  forward,  fiery  fast, 

And  met  in  middle  ground : 
Met  with  stern  shock  of  man  and  horse, 

And  din  of  crashing  spears  ; — 
But  neither  champion  won  the  course, 

They  parted  there  like  peers. 
Again — again  !  and  respite  none 

Will  hot  Lord  Saimpi  yield  : 
Swift  he  demands  with  haughty  tone 

Renewal  of  the  field. 
Whereto,  Sir  Gawen,  urged  to  speak, 

Answers,  as  haughtily, 
"  By  God  !  proud  knight — I  nothing  seek 

So  much  as  strife  with  thee." 
Thus  spake  he,  and  his  visor  closed, 

As  to  his  post  he  passed. 
Again  the  armed  men,  opposed, 

Await  the  signal  blast. 
Sudden  it  came  !  with  hearts  of  flame, 

The  champions,  at  the  sound, 
Drove  each  his  steed  to  furious  speed, 

And  met  in  middle  ground. 


THE  MASTER  OF  BOLTON.  91 

The  Prankish  champion  struck  amain — 

Struck  with  a  force  so  dire 
On  Gawen's  helmet,  that  his  brain 

Streamed  with  a  flood  of  fire. 
But  Gawen  smote  the  knight  of  France 

Full  on  his  sturdy  breast, 
And,  driven  perforce,  the  trusty  lance 

Through  shield  and  corslet  prest — 
Crashing  through  steel,  the  weapon  good 

Lord  Saimpi's  bosom  found, 
Nor  broke  until  the  sudden  blood 

Gushed  darkly  from  the  wound. 
Manful  against  the  lance's  force 

Lord  Saimpi  bore  him  well, 
And  passed  Sir  Gawen  in  the  course, 

All  upright  in  his  selle : 
But,  with  the  gallop  of  his  horse, 

He  reeled — and  swayed — and  fell. 

"  Now  yield  thee,  Lord  of  Saimpi,  yield !" 

No  word  Lord  Saimpi  said  ; 
The  fount  of  haughty  speech  was  sealed, 

Lord  Saimpi's  life  was  sped — 


FR01SSART  BALLADS. 

Sped  gallantly :  and  on  his  shield, 

Distained  so  bloody  red, 
His  servants  bore  him  from  the  field, 

At  slow  and  solemn  tread. 

With  the  lord's  death,  a  hush  of  awe 

Fell  down  on  tongue  and  heart, 
And  you  might  mark  the  nobles  draw 

In  sombre  groups  apart. 
Few  were  who  loved  the  haughty  lord, 
And  vauntful  port  and  jeering  word 

Prefaced  the  stroke  of  doom ; 
But  none  reck  now  of  these — the  proud 
Beauty,  and  valour,  of  the  crowd, 

One  aspect  wear  of  gloom. 
Said  gentle  Charles,  "  A  woful  end  ! 
May  Jesu's  potent  love  befriend 
The  brave  Lord  Saimpi  in  his  want. 

A  rude  audacity  defaced — 
Audacity  and  sins  of  vaunt — 

His  prowess,  but  the  knight  was  graced 


THE  MASTER  OF  BOLTON. 

With  gallant  virtues.     Better  lance — 
Despite  that  taint  of  arrogance — 
Or  stouter  heart,  was  not  in  France. 
Sir  Gawen  Bolton — all  will  say — 
Hath  borne  him  gallantly  to-day, 
And  we,  as  right  is,  willingly, 
Perforce  of  our  fair  powers,  decree 
That — Saimpi  dead — this  champion  bold, 
And  proved  of  valiant  worth,  shall  hold 
Possession  of  the  knightly  ring, 
All  armed  comers  challenging. 
All  rights  of  field  by  Saimpi  won, 
Transferred  by  Saimpi,  now  undone, 
Rest  with  his  victor.     Cheerfully, 
So  much  of  course  we  now  decree. 
And,  gallants  !  hearken  what  we  say — 
Who  holds  this  field  at  set  of  day 
Will  bear  the  game's  fair  prize  away." 

Into  the  lists  Lord  Arundel — 
A  gay,  glad  knight,  known  passing  well 
In  courts  of  kings,  and  famed  for  skill 
To  vanquish  woman  to  his  will, 


93 


94  FROISfcART  BALLADS. 

And  trained  in  all  accomplishments 
Of  dance,  and  song,  and  martial  fence, 
And  master  too  of  dexterous  art  *• 
With  the  sweet  harp  to  reach  the  heart — 
This  worthy  gentleman,  I  say, 
Entered  the  lists  with  bearing  gay, 
And  said :  "  For  the  fair  lady's  sake, 
I  humbly  crave  a  spear  to  break, 
When  the  good  knight  of  Bolton's  force 
Is  mended  from  his  double  course." 
Whereto  Sir  Gawen  answer  made, 
Gallant  and  fair,  and  nothing  stayed, 
But,  with  high  heart  of  hopeful  cheer, 
And  proud  glance  to  his  lady  dear, 
Took  post  again,  and  couched  his  spear. 

PART  V. 

At  signal  of  a  bugle  blast, 
Sharp  and  of  sudden  sound, 

The  knights  set  forward,  fiery  fast, 
And  met  in  middle  ground. 


THE  MASTER  OF  BOLTON.  95 

Lord  Arundel  struck  Gawen's  shield, 

And  broke  his  spear  in  three — 
Struck  with  such  force  that  Gawen  reeled 

Wild  in  his  saddle-tree. 
But  Gawen  smote  Lord  Arundel 

Full  on  his  helmet's  front, 
And  bowed  him  to  his  horse's  tail, 

So  mighty  was  the  brunt. 
And  when  the  lord  firm  posture  won, 

And  from  the  shock  upreared 
His  comely  brow — his  helm  was  gone, 

And  bloody  was  his  beard. 
"  Small  thanks,  Sir  Gawen,  for  thy  stroke" — 

Right  merrily  said  the  Lord — 
"  And,  ere  a  second  I  provoke, 

I  crave  one  gentle  word 
Of  the  fair  Lady  Jocelind, 

For  whose  white  hand  we  ride. 
I  care  not  with  a  doubting  mind 

This  battle  to  abide." 

Then  passing,  frank  of  courtesy, 
He  came  before  the  maid, 


96 


FROISSART  BALLADS. 


And,  gallantly,  from  bended  knee, 

In  pleasant  accents  said, 
"  Sweet  majesty !  an  humble  knight, 

Led  on  by  brave  report 
Of  splendours  of  thy  beauty  bright, 

I  sought  this  Prankish  court. 
The  real  beauty,  whereof  fame 

So  spake,  outshines  as  far 
Her  best  report,  as  Dian's  flame 

Outshines  a  twinkling  star. 
Now  speak  a  frank  fair  truth,  and  say, 

If  playing  well  my  part, 
I  win  success,  wilt  thou  repay 

My  toil  with  willing  heart  ?" 

"  Sir  knight,"  said  Jocelind,  "  thy  words 

Are  gently  toned,  but  ill. 
The  prouder  strength  of  man  accords 

Naught  to  a  maiden's  will. 
But,  for  frank  answer,  elsewhere  seek  ; 

Thy  skill  of  lance  and  lute 
May  surely  win  a  brighter  cheek, 

To  redden  to  thy  suit." 


THE  MASTER  OF   BOLTON.  97 

Uprose  the  lord :  "  Then  will  I  ride 

No  more  to-day,"  quoth  he, 
"  Lord  Saimpi's  fate — unwilling  bride, 

Neither  seems  good  to  me." 
And  so  the  gentleman  passed  forth, 

And  put  his  helm  away, 
And  better  pastime  found  in  mirth, 

And  converse  light  and  gay. 
Meantime,  this  controversy  done, 

Sir  Gawen,  nothing  loth, 
Passed  to  a  fair  pavilion 

Of  silk  and  samite  cloth ; 
And  doffed  his  casque,  and  rested  there, 

Whereof  was  earnest  need, 
Whilst  his  swift  grooms,  with  willing  care, 

Recruited  well  his  steed. 

Now  who  is  he,  so  haught  of  head, 

Who  enters  on  the  field — 
Curbs  his  white  steed  to  stately  tread, 

And  smites  Sir  Gawen's  shield? 
9 


98  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

All  marked  the  giant,  as  he  passed 

At  slow  and  stern  advance, 
All  marked  his  charger  strong  and  vast — 

All  knew  the  knight  Herchaunce. 
The  growing  hope  of  Jocelind 

Before  his  coming  bends, 
And,  like  a  taper  in  the  wind, 

For  feeble  life  contends. 
How  may  her  chosen  knight  endure 

The  more  than  human  force 
Of  such  a  foe — how  hold  before 

Such  giant  man  and  horse  ? 
With  beating  heart,  fixed  eye,  and  cheek 

As  very  marble  pale — 
She  sits,  too  wild  of  thought  to  seek 

Concealment  of  her  veil. 
But  from  his  tent,  Sir  Gawen  steps 

With  gallant  countenance, 
And  cheerfully  to  saddle  leaps, 

And  grasps  his  trusty  lance. 
At  signal  of  a  bugle  blast, 

Sharp  and  of  sudden  sound, 


THE  MASTER  OF  BOLTON.  99 

The  knights  set  forward,  fiery  fast, 

And  met  in  middle  ground. 
Herchaunce,  who  ran  the  course  as  he 

His  foe  would  overwhelm, 
At  meeting  did  unskilfully, 

And  missed  Sir  Gawen's  helm. 
Sir  Gawen  struck  the  Rhenish  knight, 

A  stroke  of  truest  force, 
And  bore  him  from  his  seat,  outright, 

And  hurled  him  from  his  horse. 
Sir  Gawen  sprang  from  saddle-tree, 

And  drew  his  dagger  bright ; 
"  Now  yield,  Sir  Knight,  or  die,"  quoth  he. 

"  I  yield  me,"  said  the  knight. 

What  time  this  goodly  end  befell, 

A  wondrous  scene  and  rare — 
So  read  we  in  the  chronicle — 

Was  clearly  witnessed  there. 
From  mastery  of  his  rider  freed, 

Tnguerrant  onset  made 
Against  Herchaunce's  Rhenish  steed, 

Who  met  him  naught  afraid. 


100  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

With  clamping  teeth,  and  nostrils  wide, 

And  crests  right  proud  to  see, 
Rearing,  and  striking,  in  their  pride, 

The  steeds  fought  wrathfully. 
Their  yellow  mail — their  glossy  skins 

Sable  and  snowy  white, 
Gleamed  grandly,  as  the  Paladins 

So  waged  their  wondrous  fight. 
Before  the  crowding  grooms  might  staunch 

The  fury  of  their  feud, 
Both  steeds,  from  quivering  crest  to  haunch, 

I  ween,  were  crimson-hued. 
The  Black,  sore  wounded,  may  not  bear 

His  master  more  to-day ; 
And  Gawen  bids  his  grooms  prepare, 

And  bard,  his  English  gray. 

The  long  day  wanes — short  time  remains 

Ere  falling  of  the  night — 
Sir  Gawen  bold,  if  fortune  hold, 

Will  win  his  lady  bright. 
One  champion  more — Sir  John  Cathore — 

The  combat  will  assay  : 


THE  MASTER  OF  BOLTON.  101 

If  evil  chance  weigh  on  his  lance, 

Sir  Gawen  wins  the  day. 
Of  gentle  birth,  this  John  Cathore 

Was  but  a  chevalier 
Who  sought  his  wage  on  every  shore, 

And  won  gold  with  his  spear. 
The  knight  had  lost  his  dexter  eye, 

By  flight  of  shaft,  or  dart, 
In  the  King's  train  of  Hungary, 

At  hunting  of  the  hart. 
Past  middle  life — gray-haired — of  face 

Swart  from  an  orient  sun — 
Was  never  wight  so  lacked  of  grace 

As  this  stout  champion. 
Now — signal  of  accepted  gage — 

He  strikes  with  ready  lance 
Sir  Gawen's  shield,  intent  to  wage 

Combat  at  utterance. 

At  signal  of  a  bugle  blast, 
Sharp  and  of  sudden  sound, 
9* 


102  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

The  knights  set  forward,  fiery  fast. 

And  met  in  middle  ground. 
Sir  Gawen  struck  Sir  John  Cathore 

And  bore  his  helm  away — 
But  stout  Sir  John  so  rudely  bore, 

That  down  went  Gawen's  gray : 
Down  went  he  wildly  overthrown 

Before  the  stroke  of  force — 
Down  went  he  with  a  horrent  groan, 

That  grim  and  ancient  horse. 
His  lady's  cry  reached  Gawen's  ear, 

Above  the  sounding  strife : 
That  piercing  cry,  so  wild  to  hear, 

Has  nerved  him  into  life. 
From  saddle-tree  leapt  John  Cathore, 

But  ere  he  touched  the  sand, 
Sir  Gawen  stood  the  knight  before, 

His  good  sword  in  his  hand. 
Now  foot  to  foot,  and  hand  to  hand, 

The  champions  will  contend  : 
By  dint  of  honest  blow  of  brand, 

The  best  will  win  his  end. 


THE  MASTER  OF  BOLTON. 

But  first  Sir  Gawen  doffed,  and  threw 

His  knightly  helm  away — 
Still  to  his  fame,  and  honour,  true, 

However  fare  the  day. 
At  vantage  it  were  base  to  fight, 

And  helmless  is  Sir  John  ; 
But  now  the  knights  in  equal  plight 

To  battle  dire  press  on. 

Sir  John  smote  first,  but  with  a  bound 

Sir  Gawen  shunned  the  blow, 
And  giving  ground,  and  taking  ground, 

About  the  lists  they  go. 
On  young  Sir  Gawen's  flowing  hair, 

And  bright  and  manly  brow — 
On  John  Cathore's  gray  pow,  half  bare, 

The  level  sun  shines  now. 
Sir  Gawen  saw  the  flight  so  fast 

All  of  the  golden  sun, 
And  lowly  said,  "  This  trial  past, 

And  more  than  life  is  won." 


103 


104  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

His  heart  of  valour  seized  the  thought, 

Enflamed  anew  thereby, 
And  the  bold  youth  his  battle  fought, 

Intent  to  win  or  die. 

With  blows,  and  thrusts,  that  seek  a  door 

At  every  rivet  fine, 
They  fight  until  Sir  John  Cathore 

Bleeds  like  a  cask  of  Rhine. 
Griesly  and  grim  have  waxed  his  looks, 

Right  hotly  mounts  his  ire, 
Rebuke  of  steel  he  badly  brooks— 

His  one  eye  glows  like  fire. 

Be  wary,  Gawen — mind  thy  life  ! 

Sir  John  comes  stormily. 
"  Close  stroke  of  sword  shall  end  this  strife"- 

In  stormy  tone  quoth  he. 
Down  fell  his  blows  like  iron  hail, 

With  clangour  loud  and  dread ; 
They  struck  the  fire  from  Gawen's  mail,. 

They  gleamed  about  his  head. 


THE  MASTER  OF  BOLTON. 

With  bound,  and  ward,  and  ready  guard, 

Sir  Gawen  held  his  own, 
While  to  and  fro  all  saw  them  go — 

Sir  Gawen  and  Sir  John. 
But  now,  forsooth,  the  sturdy  youth, 

Sir  Gawen,  onset  makes ; 
With  brand  or  spear,  the  truth  is  clear, 

He  gives  as  well  as  takes. 
From  first  sweep  of  Sir  Gawen's  blade 

Sir  John  his  safety  found — 
The  next  blow  that  Sir  Gawen  made, 

Down  went  he  to  the  ground  : 
Down  went  Sir  John  with  cloven  brow, 

And  nevermore  to  rise. 
And  Gawen  Bolton,  victor  now, 

Is  winner  of  the  prize  ! 
Peace  to  the  soul  of  John  Cathore : 

A  bolder  cavalier, 
Or  better  captain,  never  bore 

His  fortune  on  his  spear. 

With  John  Cathore  cast  down,  and  slain, 
Ended  the  jousts  of  Bar-by-Seine. 


105 


106  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

And  Charles,  the  regent,  now  will  say 
Who  bears  the  lovely  prize  away. 
Fronting  the  sunset's  purple  pride, 
And  hill  tops  with  the  glory  dyed, 
Charles  watches,  from  his  steed,  to  see 
The  burning  disk  sink  utterly. 
With  the  last  flicker  of  its  beams, 
Dying  amongst  surrounding  gleams, 
He  dropped  his  baton  from  his  hand, 
And  forth  bade  good  Sir  Gawen  stand. 
"  Brave  knight,"  he  said,  "  we  do  decree 
All  honours  of  this  day  to  thee — 
A  chaplet  for  thy  gallant  head, 
A  countess  for  thy  marriage  bed. 
This  say  we  now — hereafter  more. 
Thy  brows — and  manlier  never  wore 
Love's  garland,  won  in  front  of  death — 
Will  now  receive  the  victor's  wreath. 
Haply — and,  by  our  faith,  we  guess 
So  much — the  lady's  great  distress, 
Whereof  the  recent  show  made  all 
Condemn  the  good  Lord  Reyneval, 


THE  MASTER  OF  BOLTON.  107 

Will  yield,  in  somewhat,  when  she  finds 
How  frank  and  bold  a  brow  she  binds. 
We  know  not  of  that  shrewd  surmise 
Which  speaks  thy  favour  in  her  eyes  ; 
But  sure  the  countess,  soon  or  late, 
Will  find  contentment  in  her  fate, 
Nor  rue  this  wooing  of  the  sword 
If  gallant  heart  makes  loving  lord." 

Sir  Gawen,  at  his  lady's  feet, 
Bends,  harking  to  her  words  so  sweet — 
Some  words  of  course,  and  which  alone 
Take  meaning  from  their  trembling  tone. 
But  now  her  little  hand,  so  fair, 
Touches  his  brow,  and  lingers  there. 
Place,  and  that  presence,  speak  him  nay, 
But  Gawen  wins  the  hand  away, 
And  seals  it  to  his  lips,  the  while 
The  countess  chides  him  with  a  smile. 

The  formal  truth  is  clearly  told 
In  the  good  chronicle  of  old, 


108  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

How  nuptial  rites,  and  feasts,  attended 
By  pomp  and  ceremony  splendid, 
Followed  the  jousts ;  how  by  decree 
Watchful  in  points  of  fealty, 
Sir  Gawen,  with  his  lady's  hand, 
Gained  stately  castles,  gold  and  land  ; 
And,  with  the  rest,  in  fair  requital 
Of  worthy  deeds,  a  lordly  title. 
Such  was  his  meed ;  and  never  one 
Of  the  great  counts  of  Rousillon 
Such  honour  to  his  honours  gave 
As  Gawen — gentle,  truthful,  brave, 
Since  the  proud  founder  of  their  line, 
With  bands  Franconian,  crossed  the  Rhine. 


GEOFFREY   TETENOIRE. 

THE  Lady  Jane,  with  urgent  train, 

Comes  trooping  into  Paris : 
Her  milk-white  mule  seems  very  proud 

Beneath  the  load  he  carries — 
And,  reason  good,  for  fairer  dame, 

Than  lovely  Lady  Jane, 
Is  not  between  the  Norman  lands 

And  mountain  line  of  Spain. 

The  Lady  Jane  of  Ventadore 

Is  irritant  of  mood, 
The  dame  is  but  a  fugitive 

Before  a  robber  rude ; 
Tetenoire,  the  Free  Companion, 

Is  master  of  her  lands, 
10 


110  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

And  castle  strong,  by  hardy  wrong, 
And  holds  them  with  his  bands. 

Thus  is  it  that  the  Lady  Jane 

Comes  trooping  into  Paris — 
Reining  the  little  mule,  so  proud 

Beneath  the  load  he  carries. 
Here  may  she  be  at  liberty, 

And  wisely  meditate, 
The  wrong  which  she  has  undergone 

In  pride,  and  in  estate. 

The  countess  came  at  June's  sweet  end, 

And,  on  an  autumn  day, 
The  County  Gaston  sought  her  side, 

His  suit  of  love  to  pay  : 
"  For  thy  dear  love,  all  price  above, 

And  for  thy  hand  so  fair, 
If  win  I  may,  sweet  lady,  say, 

What  service  shall  I  dare  ?" 

The  yielding  dame  made  answer  then  : 
"The  whisper  of  a  lute, 


GEOFFREY  TETENOIRE.  Ill 

Were  not  so  dear  a  sound  to  hear, 

As  this  thy  gentle  suit. 
But,  like  the  dame  who  bade  her  lord 

Leap  down,  and  win  her  glove 
From  forth  a  lion's  jaws,  I  bind 

A  service  to  thy  love. 

Five  years  I  dwelt,  a  widow  lorn, 

In  Castle  Ventadore  ; 
Tetenoire  the  Breton  drove  me  forth, 

And  wronged  me  much  and  sore ; 
If  thou  wilt  slay  the  robber  vile, 

And  bring  his  head  to  me, 
I  freely  vow,  Sir  Count,  that  thou, 

Shalt  have  my  hand  for  fee." 

*  *  #  # 

It  was  the  County  Gaston 

Drew  on  to  Ventadore, 
His  men-at-arms  behind  him, 

His  trumpeters  before ; 
And  by  his  side  did  proudly  ride 

Sir  Anthony  Bonlance, 


112  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

A  sweet  Parisian  gentleman 

Of  dainty  countenance. 
Between  St.  Flour  and  Ventadore, 

Fair  in  a  forest  glade, 
The  county  rides,  at  stately  pace, 

Before  his  cavalcade. 
The  autumn  leaves,  the  count  perceives, 

Have  caught  a  beauty  rare, 
As  if  the  rays  of  lovely  days 

Had  been  entangled  there. 

And  the  near  hills  are  ringing 

With  merry  songs  and  sweet — 
The  birds  are  piping  merrily 

The  early  day  to  greet : 
The  early  day,  for  on  their  way 

As  forth  the  riders  pass, 
The  sparkling  dews,  which  night  renews, 

Are  bright  on  tree  and  grass. 

Some  gentle  praise  of  nature 
The  gallant  count  was  saying, 


GEOFFREY  TETENOIRE.  113 

When  he  was  ware  of  horsemen  near — 

He  heard  their  chargers  neighing. 
And  then  he  spurred  his  good  steed  up 

A  near  acclivity, 
From  whose  broad  top  a  loving  eye 

A  lovely  land  might  see. 

But  not  upon  the  beauty  rare 

Of  that  most  lovely  land, 
The  county  gazed — beyond  the  hill 

He  saw  an  armed  band  : 
A  band,  I  ween,  fair  to  be  seen, 

Of  mail-clad  cavaliers, 
Holding  their  way,  in  close  array, 

With  sunlit  helms  and  spears. 

Lord  Gaston's  hand  waved  brief  command, 

And  straight  an  Auvergne  guide 
Obeyed  his  signal,  from  the  troop, 

And  galloped  to  his  side. 
"  Now  who  be  they  on  yonder  way  ] 

Look  freely  and  declare." 
10* 


114  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

Whereto  the  guide  in  haste  replied, 
"  The  man  you  seek  is  there. 

"  For  mark  you  not  the  litter  borne 

Amidst  the  armed  band  ? 
They  call  it  Geoffrey's  battle-horse 

In  all  this  southern  land. 
The  robber  bold  is  waxing  old, 

And  therefore  travels  so." 
Then  said  the  lord,  "  By  my  good  sword  ! 

I  joy  so  much  to  know." 

And  now  he  wheels  his  champing  steed, 

And  hurries  from  the  height, 
And  joins  his  willing  men-at-arms, 

And  orders  them  aright. 
"  The  enemy  rides  here,"  quoth  he, 

"  Beneath  us  on  the  plain, 
In  bold  array,  athwart  our  way, 

His  castle  hold  to  gain." 

Tetenoire  was  wending  on  his  route, 
So  in  his  litter  borne, 


GEOFFREY  TETENOIRE.  115 

When,  from  the  wooded  height  above, 

Rang  out  a  bugle  horn. 
And  with  the  sound,  shaking  the  ground, 

Rushed  down  the  charging  horse — 
With  level  spears,  the  cavaliers 

Came  thundering  on  their  course. 

Grim  Geoffrey  raised  his  head  and  gazed, 

Expectant  of  the  shock, 
And  laughed  to  see  its  fury  break 

Like  sea-foam  on  a  rock. 
"  These  lords,"  quoth  he,  right  scornfully, 

"  Misjudge  me  overmuch, 
They  pounce  as  if  my  eagle  brood 

Were  quarries  for  their  clutch." 

And  then  his  dark,  keen  eye  did  mark 

Lord  Gaston's  haughty  crest, 
Where,  chafed  and  baffled,  to  and  fro 

He  rode  amongst  the  rest. 
Intent  the  gallant  county  seemed 

To  rally  back  his  host, 


116  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

Like  one  whose  courage  would  regain 
Some  rose  of  honour  lost. 

"  Give  me  a  cross-bow  in  my  hand, 

And  place  a  bolt  therein" — 
Grim  Geoffrey  said — "  and  bend  the  bow, 

And  let  the  bolt  be  keen." 
And  then  he  scanned  the  county's  band, 

And  bade  his  own  hold  place — 
A  perilous  smile  was  fierce  the  while 

Upon  his  ancient  face. 

As  leant  he  on  his  litter's  side, 

An  old  and  feeble  man, 
With  raven  locks  so  wonderful 

Above  his  visage  wan, 
And  peered  with  keen  and  ferret  eyes — 

So  subtil  in  their  guile — 
You  would  have  said  a  common  wrath 

Was  kinder  than  his  smile. 

He  raised  the  cross-bow  to  his  aim, 
And  then  with  sudden  twang, 


GEOFFREY  TETENOIRE.  1  1 7 

The  bolt  flew  forth,  and  angrily 

Upon  its  journey  sang. 
The  sharp  bolt  flew  so  swift,  and  true, 

That,  ere  a  man  might  speak, 
It  smote  the  County  Gaston 

Betwixt  the  eye  and  cheek. 

Ah,  ill  betide  the  bowyer's  craft, 

That  shaped  that  bolt  so  true ! 
And  ill  betide  the  heart  of  pride, 

From  whose  fierce  will  it  flew ! 
The  county  tottered  on  his  horse, 

His  brain  span  round  and  round, 
And  then  he  lost  his  rein,  and  fell 

A  dead  man  to  the  ground. 

Sir  Anthony  scarce  stayed  to  see 

The  County  Gaston  slain, 
But  turned  to  face  the  homeward  hill, 

And  urged  his  horse  amain. 
Now,  by  my  troth,  Sir  Anthony 

Will  surely  win  the  race! 


118  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

His  knighthood  claims,  and  holds,  the  van — 
Behind  him  bursts  the  chace. 

Old  Geoffrey  in  his  litter  lies, 

And  marks  his  armed  men 
Come  trooping  back,  in  scattered  groups, 

To  win  his  side  agen. 
"  Now  who  be  these — our  enemies — 

Who  dare  abroad  to  ride, 
For  foolish  enterprise  of  arms, 

In  this  our  country-side  ?" 

In  answer  to  his  master's  quest, 

A  griesly  wight  and  strong 
Came  leading,  through  the  merry  crowd, 

A  captive,  by  a  thong. 
Lashed  like  a  hound — his  fine  arms  bound — 

Came  pale  Sir  Anthony. 
The  hapless  plight  of  that  fine  knight 

Was  very  sad  to  see. 

"  This  gentleman" — his  captor  said — 
"  Was  riding  with  the  rest, 


GEOFFREY  TETENOIRE.  119 

And,  yea  indeed !  he  led  the  race — 

His  charger  was  the  best. 
But  as  he  rode  so  terribly 

Upon  his  dapple  gray, 
The  good  beast  stumbled  at  a  ditch, 

And  left  him  by  the  way." 

Sir  Anthony  is  tremulous, 

For  he  is  troubled  sore : 
Right  awful  are  the  icy  looks, 

Of  him  of  Ventadore. 
Quoth  Geoffrey,  "  Speak  the  truth,  and  show 

What  errand  brought  you  here." 
And,  quakingly,  Sir  Anthony 

Made  all  the  truth  appear. 

"  Who  seeks  my  head  had  well  beware," 

The  Breton  sternly  said, 
"Lest,  groping  in  the  lion's  den, 

He  lose  his  own  instead." 
Then,  lowering  darkly  on  the  knight, 

He  deigned  to  say  no  more, 


120  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

But  bade  his  trumpets  lead  the  way 

En  route  for  Ventadore. 
*  *  *  * 

In  a  proud  hall  Parisian, 

With  jewels  quite  a-blaze, 
The  Countess  Jane  was  leading  down 

The  stately  Polonaise, 
When,  like  a  discord,  in  the  midst 

Of  music  proud,  and  dance, 
In  way-worn  plight,  stalked  in  the  knight 

Sir  Anthony  Bonlance. 

His  beard  defiled,  his  locks  so  wild, 

His  garb  in  disarray — 
Ah !  can  it  be  Sir  Anthony, 

Who  went  so  proud  away  1 
A  servitor  behind  him  glides, 

And  bears,  as  all  may  see, 
A  little  casket,  richly  wrought 

Of  gold  and  ebony. 

"  I  bought  my  freedom  at  a  price," 
So  said  the  haggard  knight> 


•% 

GEOFFREY  TETENOIRE. 

"  Dearer  than  gold  in  red  merks  told — 

And  I  must  pay  aright 
That  ransom  now,  or  break  a  vow 

Wherewith  my  soul  is  bound." 
His  sad,  dark  mien,  and  words,  I  ween, 

Have  hushed  the  music's  sound. 

He  came  before  the  Countess  Jane — 

Forlorn  Sir  Anthony ! 
And  muttered,  "  I  am  sworn  to  bear 

This  casket  unto  thee." 
So  said  the  haggard  knight,  and  placed 

The  casket  in  her  hands ; 
And  she,  in  marvel  at  his  words, 

Unclasped  the  golden  bands. 

Ah  !  God  and  all  good  saints  support 

The  stricken  Lady  Jane ! 
Within  is  County  Gaston's  head — 

A  bow-bolt  in  the  brain ! 
She  lost  the  casket  from  her  hands — 

Out  rolled  the  gory  head — 
11 


122  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

And  Lady  Jane,  with  wandering  arms, 
Fell  down  as  fall  the  dead. 


A  convent  crowns  a  gentle  hill 

Above  the  bounding  Rhone, 
And  to  its  shades,  for  health  of  soul, 

The  Countess  Jane  is  gone : 
A  sister  of  that  holy  house, 

Her  griefs  of  earth  are  dead — 
But,  in  her  dreams,  the  sister  sees 

A  casket  and  a  head. 


[!N  the  three  following  poems,  Froissart,  from  whom  I  have  faith- 
fully  taken  them,  is  made  to  address  the  reader  directly.  They  are 
put  into  this  shape  to  retain  the  pleasant  pedantry  about  Acteon  in 
the  conclusion  of  Sir  Peter  of  Beam,  and  also  the  general  naive  cre 
dulity  of  the  good  knight  and  his  gossips,  which  makes  a  principal 
part  of  the  charm  of  the  prose  chapters. 

The  reader  may  censure  these  poems,  dealing  in  a  low  and 
homely  order  of  the  marvellous,  as  trivial  in  subject,  and  no  fulfil 
ment  of  the  promise  involved  in  the  undertaking  to  versify  portions 
of  a  history  abounding  in  narratives  of  heroic  and  chivalric  action. 
If  he  can  find  no  good  artistical  reason  for  my  grouping  such  ballads 
as  a  relief  to  the  Master  of  Bolton  and  Geoffrey  Tetenoire — poems 
full  of  martial  narrative — he  will  please  recollect  (what  my  preface 
declares)  that  Orthone,  Sir  Peter  of  Beam,  and  Our  Lady's  Dog, 
are  but  three  out  of  many  ballads,  upon  various  subjects,  already 
roughly  written :  and  that  they  are  by  no  means  designed  to  be 
considered,  in  themselves,  a  fulfilment  of  the  promise  of  my  title 
page. 

Gaston,  Earl  of  Foix,  at  whose  magnificent  court  Sir  John 
learned  these  stories,  seems  to  have  been  a  great  favourite  with  him. 
His  account  of  the  earl's  appearance  and  mode  of  living  is  readable 
enough  for  quotation. 

"  Sir  Espange  de  Lion  went  to  the  castle  to  the  earl,  after  sunset, 
and  found  him  in  his  gallery,  for  he  had  but  recently  dined  ;  for  the 
earl's  custom  was  to  rise  at  noon  and  sup  at  midnight :  the  knight 
informed  him  of  my  arrival,  and  I  was  immediately  sent  for  to  my 


124  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

lodging  at  the  Moon.  When  the  earl  saw  me,  he  made  me  good 
cheer.  *  *  *  The  acquaintance  between  me  and  the  earl  was  be 
cause  I  had  brought  with  me  a  book,  which  I  had  formed  at  the 
suggestion  of  Winceslaus  of  Bohemia,  Duke  of  Luxembourg  and 
Brabant,  which  book  was  called  the  Meliader,  containing  all  the 
songs,  ballads,  rondeaus,  and  virelays,  which  the  worthy  duke  had 
made  in  his  time ;  and  this  book  the  earl  was  glad  to  see,  and  often 
I  read  therein  to  him,  and  while  I  read  there  was  none  durst  speak 
a  word.  *  *  *  This  Earl  Gaston  of  Foix  was  then  fifty-nine  years  of 
age :  and  though  I  have  seen  many  knights,  kings,  princes,  and 
others,  I  never  saw  any  of  so  fine  a  figure  ;  his  visage  fair,  sanguine, 
and  smiling,  his  eyes  gray  and  amorous,  where  he  chose  to  set 
his  regard :  in  every  thing  he  was  so  perfect,  that  he  cannot  be 
praised  too  much:  he  loved  what  ought  to  be  beloved,  and  hated 
what  ought  to  be  hated.  He  said  many  orisons  daily  ;  a  nocturn 
of  the  psalter,  matins  of  our  Lady,  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  and  of  the 
cross,  and  dirge  every  day :  he  gave  five  florins  in  small  sums  at 
his  gate  to  poor  folks  for  the  love  of  God  ;  he  was  generous  and 
courteous  in  gifts ;  he  loved  hounds  of  all  beasts ;  winter  and 
summer  he  loved  hunting.  *  *  *  He  kept  coffers  in  his  chamber 
out  of  which  he  would  often  take  money  to  give  to  lords,  knights, 
and  squires,  for  none  ever  left  him  without  some  present.  *  *  *  He 
would  converse  familiarly  with  all  men  ;  he  was  short  in  counsel 
and  answers :  he  had  four  secretaries,  ever  ready  at  his  rising 
without  being  called.  At  midnight  when  he  came  out  of  his 
chamber  into  the  hall  to  supper,  he  had  ever  before  him  twelve 
torches  burning,  borne  by  twelve  varlets.  *  *  *  The  hall  was  ever 
full  of  knights  and  squires,  and  many  other  tables  were  prepared 
for  any  to  sup  who  pleased ;  none  spoke  to  him  at  his  table  unless 
he  were  called:  his  meat  was  usually  wild  fowls,  the  legs  and 
wings  only  ;  *  *  *  he  would  have  songs  sung  before  him  ;  he  was 


FROISSART  BALLADS.  125 

pleased  at  seeing  humorous  tricks  performed  at  his  table,  and 
when  he  had  seen  them  he  would  send  them  to  the  other  tables. 
Before  I  came  to  his  court  I  had  been  at  the  courts  of  many  kings, 
princes,  dukes,  earls,  and  great  ladies,  but  never  in  any  that 
pleased  me  so  much  :  and  there  were  none  who  took  more  delight 
in  deeds  of  arms  than  the  earl  did  :  there  were  seen  in  his  hall, 
chamber,  and  court,  knights  and  squires  of  honour  going  up  and 
down,  and  talking  of  arms  and  amours:  all  honour  was  found 
there,  and  tidings  from  every  realm  and  country  might  be  heard 
there  ;  for  out  of  every  country  there  was  resort  on  account  of 
the  valour  of  the  earl.  In  this  manner  the  Earl  of  Foix  lived." 

At  Ortaise,  enjoying  the  favour  of  this  great  earl,  Froissart 
meets  with  the  Bastot  Maulion,  and  Ernalton  of  Pine,  who  are 
very  willing  to  gossip  with  so  distinguished  a  clerk.] 


11* 


OR  T  HONE. 

IT  was  the  Hastot  Maul  ion 

Who  told  this  tale  to  me, 
At  Ortaise,  by  an  ingle  side, 

In  gossip  frank  and  free, 
At  the  good  hostel  of  the  Moon, 

Where  I  sometime  attended 
The  will  of  Gaston  Earl  of  Foix, 

That  potent  lord,  and  splendid. 

The  Lord  Corasse — the  Bastot  said — 

Had  taken  on  his  hands 
Feud  with  a  Catalonia n  clerk, 

Who  sought  to  tithe  his  lands ; 
And  dealt  so  rudely  by  the  priest 

That  he  was  fain  to  fly — 
For  the  lord's  wrath  had  put  his  life, 

He  deemed,  in  jeopardy. 


ORTHONE.  1 27 

Hut  ere  the  |)ricst  went  li.rlli,  lie  came 

And  yielded  to  the  lord, 
In  formal  wise,  the  cause  of  feud  ; 

And  then,  at  parting  word, 
Quoth  he,  "  Corasse,  your  greater  strength 

Has  robbed  me  of  my  right : 
I  yield  not  to  your  argument, 

Rut  only  to  your  might." 

"  Ah,  Master  Martin  !"  said  the  lord, 

"  I  rare  not  for  your  rage ; 
Free  living  shall  you  never  have 

From  my  fair  heritage." 
"  So  much  I  know ;"  the  clerk  replied, 

"  You  violate  the  laws  ; 
Rut,  swift  as  may  be,  T  will  send 

A  champion  of  my  cause. 

"  And  he;  shall  den  I  so  by  your  pence, 

That  you  will  sorely  rue 
That  you  have  borne  against  the  right, 

And  robl>ed  me  of  my  due." 


128  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

And,  with  such  words,  the  angry  clerk 

Departed  on  his  way : 
The  baron  never  saw  him  more 

From  forth  that  summer  day. 

Three  nights  thereafter,  Lord  Corasse 

Lay  quietly  abed, 
When,  suddenly,  the  castle  rung 

With  wondrous  sounds  and  dread ; 
A  clatter  in  the  kitchens — 

A  thunder  on  the  stair — 
And  shrillest  voices  screaming 

Around  it  in  the  air. 

The  Lord  Corasse  sate  up,  and  stared, 

And  seemed  in  trouble  sore ; 
Then  heard  unmannered  knocking 

All  at  his  chamber  door. 
His  lady  drew  the  curtains 

In  fear  about  her  head, 
But  to  his  sword,  reached  forth  the  lord, 

And,  full  of  courage,  said — 


ORTHONE.  129 


"  Now  who  be  ye  who  thunder  so? 

Pray  let  your  names  be  shown." 
And  at  the  word,  reply  he  heard, 

"  They  call  my  name  Orthone." 
"  Orthone,"  replied  the  baron, 

"  Who  sent  you  here  to  me?" 
"  Your  enemy,  the  Spanish  clerk, 

Whose  work  I  do" — quoth  he. 

"  Orthone,"  said  on  the  baron  stout, 

"  A  beggar  like  the  clerk 
Will  give  you  little  thanks,  or  wage, 

For  moiling  at  his  work  : 
I  pray  you  be  my  servant !" — 

With  this  the  clamour  ceased, 
And  Orthone  said,  "  So  let  it  be — 

I  weary  of  the  priest." 

Thereafter  Orthone  served  the  lord, 

Invisible  to  him ; 
Would  seek  his  chamber  nightly, 

When  lights  were  burning  dim, 


130  FROISSAIIT  BALLADS. 

And  bring  him  news  of  distant  lands, 

Of  battle-field,  and  court ; 
Did  never  post  so  little  cost, 

Or  bear  such  swift  report. 

One  day  the  baron  came  to  join 

A  banquet  at  Ortaise, 
And  some  loose  speech  of  his  did  strike 

Earl  Gaston  with  amaze. 
"  Brother !"  quoth  he,  "  how  may  it  be — 

This  thing  thou  dost  declare — 
Unless  thou  hast  a  messenger 

To  fly  upon  the  air?" 

And  then  the  baron  answer  made, 

For  he  was  glad  with  wine, 
And  told  the  earl  the  story — 

Who  thereof  did  opine 
As  of  a  marvel  deep,  and  said, 

"  If  ever  thou  hast  seen 
This  messenger,  in  any  shape, 

Pray  tell  me  of  his  mien." 


ORTHONE.  131 

"  I  have  not  seen  him,"  said  Corasse, 

"  Small  use  it  were  to  see ; 
Sufficient  that  he  comes,  and  goes, 

And  serves  me  faithfully." 
Then  said  the  earl,  "  When  next  he  comes, 

I  pray  thee  bid  him  show 
What  look  he  wears — what  shape  he  bears — 

So  much  I  fain  would  know." 

The  Lord  Corasse  is  now  abed, 

And  merry  Orthone  seeks 
His  side  again,  and  plucks  his  ear, 

And  toys  upon  his  cheeks. 
"  Orthone — Orthone  !"  said  Lord  Corasse — 

"  Good  servant,  prithee,  show 
What  look  you  wear — what  shape  you  bear — 

So  much  I  fain  would  know." 

"  Sir,"  said  Orthone,  "  I  plainly  see 

That  you  are  bent  to  lose 
A  willing  servant :  but,  for  once, 

I  grant  the  thing  you  choose. 


FROISSART  BALLADS. 

Whatever,  when  you  leave  this  bed, 
Your  eyes  first  rest  upon — 

Observe  it  well,  for  certainly 
That  thing  will  be  Orthone." 

The  sun  is  shining  yellowly, 

And  dazzles  on  the  bed  ; 
And  Lord  Corasse  laughs  loud  to  see 

His  lady  hide  her  head. 
He  sits  upright,  and  laughs,  and  peers 

Around  him  everywhere, 
But  he  may  mark  no  living  thing, 

No  matter  how  he  stare. 

Uprose  he  then,  and  placed  his  foot 

Out  on  the  rushes,  strewn 
So  soft  upon  his  chamber  floor — 

Nor  saw  he  yet  Orthone. 
But  as  he  puts  his  foot  abroad, 

A  quick  keen  tickle  goes, 
Athwart  the  sole,  and  tingles 

Betwixt  the  wincing  toes. 


ORTHONE. 

And  as  his  foot  he  lifted, 

A  single  straw  fell  down, 
And  rested  not,  but  skipped  about, 

Over  the  rushes  brown, 
With  somersets,  and  other  feats — 

The  like,  man  never  saw, 
And  Lord  Corasse  looked  on,  and  said, 

"  The  devil  is  in  the  straw." 

But  never  deemed  the  Lord  Corasse 

That  he  had  seen  Orthone  ; 
That  day  went  by,  he  sought  his  bed 

When  as  its  toils  were  done ; 
And,  at  the  middle  watch  of  night, 

Orthone  drew  nigh  again, 
And  plucked  the  baron  by  the  ear, 

And  plucked  the  counterpane. 

"  Orthone — Orthone  !"  his  master  said, 

"  You  err  in  coming  here ; 
You  broke  that  promise  made  to  me — 

So  much  is  surely  clear." 
12 


133 


134  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

"  I  made  a  promise,"  said  Orthone, 

"  And  truly  held  thereby : 
The  tumbling  straw,  whose  feats  you  saw, 

That  little  straw  was  I." 

"  Ah  !"  quoth  the  lord,  "  I  deemed  the  straw 

Was  surely  out  of  nature  : 
But  prithee  take  some  other  form 

Of  greater  bulk  and  stature." 
And  so,  again,  the  voice  has  said, 

"  What  first  you  look  upon, 
Observe  it  well,  for  certainly 

That  thing  will  be  Orthone." 

The  baron  rose  up  with  the  sun, 
And  looking  up  and  down — 
Now  here,  now  there — and  everywhere — 

Saw  but  the  rushes  brown, 

« 
And  oaken  stools,  and  cabinets — 

The  room's  appurtenances : 
No  semblance  of  his  servant  met 
His  shrewd  and  roving  glances. 


ORTHONE.  135 

Then  to  a  lattice  broad,  he  stept, 

And  cast  it  open  wide ; 
And,  looking  down  upon  the  court, 

He  presently  espied 
A  gaunt  wild-sow,  with  ears,  I  trow, 

As  long  as  of  a  hound, 
And  bristled  back,  and  loathly  dugs 

That  trailed  upon  the  ground. 

The  baron  shouted  to  his  men — 

It  moved  him  so  to  see 
That  loathly  beast — and  bade  them  loose 

His  bandogs  speedily. 
The  mastiffs  came  out  ramping, 

But  eager-eyed  and  mute, 
They  snuffed  the  air,  and  flew  to  tear, 

And  yell  around  the  brute. 

The  wild-sow  never  tarried 

For  bay,  or  roaring  chace, 
But  gave  a  cry  unearthly, 

And  vanished  from  the  place. 


136  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

And  then  the  baron  knew  the  beast 

Was  certainly  Orthone, 
And  turned  within,  lamenting 

The  thing  that  he  had  done. 

Quoth  he,  "  It  would  be  merely  just 

If  Orthone  left  me  now — 
But  certainly  I  deemed  the  beast 

Was  but  a  loathly  sow." 
That  night  Corasse  lay  long  awake, 

But  lay  awake  in  vain : 
Orthone  came  not,  and  truly, 

He  never  came  again. 

So  said  the  Bastot  Maulion, 

And  I  have  given  his  story 
Fair  place  amongst  my  braver  tales, 

Of  policy  and  glory. 
If  it  be  true,  or  haply  false, 

So  much  I  cannot  say  : 
But  mysteries  as  great  surround 

Our  life  by  night  and  day. 


SIR  PETER   OF   BEARN. 

I  MET  the  knight  Sir  Ernalton 

In  those  right  pleasant  days, 
When,  in  attendance  on  the  earl, 

I  tarried  at  Ortaise. 
A  wise  and  worthy  knight  was  he — 

Sir  Ernalton  of  Pine* — 
And  pleasant  converse  oft  we  held 

Above  our  cups  of  wine. 

Sir  Ernalton  had  much  to  say 

Whereof  I  loved  to  learn, 
And  once,  it  chanced,  the  converse  turned 

Upon  the  knight  of  Beam. 

*  I  have  given  the  English  pronunciation  to  this  name,  as 
lo  most  of  the  French  names  in  these  poerns.  In  this  I  follow 
Lord  Berners — if  any  evidence  of  pronunciation  may  be  drawn 
from  the  various  and  capricious  spelling  of  the  old  translator. 

12* 


138  fROISSART  BALLADS. 

No  man  was  near,  our  speech  to  hear, 
And  we  were  frank  with  wine, 

And  therefore  freely  spake  my  friend, 
Sir  Ernalton  of  Pine. 

Quoth  he,  "  The  king,  Don  Pedro,  slew, 

Some  twenty  years  ago, 
The  Count  of  Biscay,  for  a  cause 

Of  which  I  nothing  know. 
His  daughter,  Lady  Florens,  fled 

To  seek  Earl  Gaston  here, 
And  came  in  grief  before  the  earl, 

And  made  her  story  clear. 

"  Earl  Gaston  heard  her  grievous  tale 

With  generous  concern, 
And  matched  her  with  his  kinsman  young, 

The  gallant  knight  of  Beam. 
Sir  Peter  found  sufficient  art 

To  quell  his  lady's  tears, 
And  happily,  as  man  and  wife, 

They  lived  for  many  years. 


SIR  PETER  OF  BEARN.  139 

"  Now  comes  my  tale :  ten  months  ago, 

One  pleasant  winter  morn, 
The  knight  from  Languedudon  rode 

To  hunt,  with  hound  and  horn  ; 
And  it  befell  that  in  a  dell, 

That  most  unlucky  day, 
The  hounds  of  good  Sir  Peter  Drought 

A  mighty  boar  to  bay. 

"  Sir  Peter  heard  their  yells  from  far, 

And  rode  the  greenwood  fast : 
And,  drawing  on,  espied  the  boar — 

A  monster  fell  and  vast. 
His  fiery  eyes,  and  foaming  tusks 

Were  fearful  to  be  seen, 
As  in  his  wrath  he  ripped  the  dogs, 

And  slew  them  on  the  green. 

" «  Now,  by  St.  Hubert !'  said  the  knight, 

'  This  thing  must  have  an  end : 
It  seems  but  pastime  to  the  boar 

My  gallant  dogs  to  rend.' 


140  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

And  then  he  urged  his  horse  amain, 
And  dashed,  in  full  career, 

To  bring  that  battle  to  an  end 
With  one  true  stroke  of  spear. 

"  But  coming  near,  his  charger  swerved, 

And  would  not  front  the  beast, 
Whereat,  I  trow,  Sir  Peter's  wrath 

Was  mightily  increased. 
'  Ah,  craven !'  quoth  he  to  his  horse, 

1  Dost  thou  so  fail  thy  lord  T — 
And,  leaping  from  his  seat,  he  drew 

His  trusty  Bordeaux  sword. 

"  An  hour  the  knight  waged  battle  hot, 

Against  his  foaming  foe, 
And  sought  his  life  with  utmost  skill 

Of  cunning  stab  and  blow. 
An  hour  he  fought,  and  verily 

The  mighty  boar  he  slew  : 
And,  standing  by  the  carcass  vast, 

His  merry  bugle  blew. 


SIR  PETER  OF  BEARN.  141 

"  His  servants  of  the  hunt  came  in, 

And  they  were  in  amaze, 
And  scrutinized  the  monster  fell 

With  wonder  in  their  gaze. 
1  This  boar,'  said  they,  c  is  sure  the  same 

That,  twenty  years  ago, 
Just  here,  in  this  same  dell,  alarmed 

Our  lady's  father  so.' 

"  '  What  say  you  ?'  said  the  knight  of  Beam, 

And  then  an  aged  wight 
Came  forth  before  the  rest,  and  made 

Free  answer  to  the  knight  ; 
1  Just  twenty  years  ago,'  quoth  he, 

4  In  this  same  month,  and  day, 
The  count,  our  lady's  father,  brought 

A  boar  like  this  to  bay. 

"  *  And  pressing  hard  upon  the  beast, 

In  this  green  valley  here, 
Some  devil's  voice  came  suddenly, 

And  strangely,  to  his  ear. 


142  FRO1SSART  BALLADS. 

Whether  it  came  from  ground,  or  air, 

Our  lord  could  never  tell : 
But  certainly  the  voice  he  heard — 

And  others  heard  as  well. 

"  *  Why  woundest  thou  a  creature  weak, 

Whose  comfort  harms  thee  not  ? 
The  cruel  shall  die  cruelly — 

Such  were  the  words,  I  wot ; 
And,  with  their  sound,  the  churning  boar 

Passed  free  of  spear  and  sword : 
Within  a  year  Don  Pedro  slew 

Our  well-beloved  lord !' 

"  '  Gramercy,'  quoth  Sir  Peter  then, 

*  My  dame's  unhappy  sire 
By  the  mere  battle,  proved  the  beast 

No  better  than  a  liar. 
A  hind  may  be  a  creature  weak — 

Not  so  this  giant  boar : 
But,  certes,  if  he  ever  spake, 

The  beast  will  speak  no  more  !" 


SIR  PETER  OF  BEARN.  143 


"  Then  back  to  Languedudon  rode 

The  knight,  his  halls  to  win, 
Leaving  the  strongest  of  his  train 

To  bear  the  wild  boar  in ; 
And  when  the  men  had  cast  their  load 

Upon  the  paved  court, 
Sir  Peter  called  his  dame  to  see 

The  trophy  of  his  sport. 

"  Fair  Lady  Florens  left  her  bower, 

And  came  forth  readily, 
And  with  a  smile  upon  her  face, 

The  slaughtered  boar  to  see : 
But  when  she  saw  the  gory  beast, 

Her  face  grew  wondrous  pale, 
And,  lifting  up  her  lily  hand, 

She  sought  her  eyes  to  veil. 

"  But  presently  she  put  away 
Her  white  hand  from  her  eyes, 

And  freely  gazed,  and  mused  as  one 
Who  deals  with  mysteries. 


144  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

Sometimes  she  mused,  then  wended  back 
Her  lonely  bower  to  seek — 

Her  right  hand  pressed  upon  her  breast, 
Her  left  upon  her  cheek. 

"  A  lonely  hour  she  passed  in  bower, 

Then  came,  with  honeyed  word, 
And  face  quite  cunning  in  its  smiles, 

And  thus  addressed  her  lord : 
1 1  owe  a  vow  to  good  St.  James, 

And,  husband,  I  would  fain 
Take  our  dear  daughter  Adrienne, 

And  journey  into  Spain.' 

"  Sir  Peter  heard  his  dame's  request, 

And  said,  «  So  let  it  be :' 
And  Lady  Florens,  with  the  word, 

Departed  speedily. 
From  Castle  Languedudon,  forth 

She  journeyed  with  her  train  ; 
And,  by  my  troth,  the  wily  dame, 

Came  never  back  again. 


SIR  PETER  OF  BEARN.  145 

"  That  night,  when  all  were  sound  asleep, 

Sir  Peter  left  his  bed, 
And  seized  his  naked  sword,  and  placed 

His  basnet  on  his  head  ; 
Fierce  smote  he  right  and  left,  and  cried 

His  sounding  battle-cry : 
I  trow  he  deemed  himself  a-field, 

And  in  sore  jeopardy. 

"  A  little  page,  who  shared  his  room, 

Fled  from  his  blows  aghast, 
And  reached  the  door,  and  flitted  out, 

And  made  the  strong  bolt  fast. 
Long,  from  without,  boy  Gracien  heard 

The  knight  that  battle  wage — 
Heard  wild  Sir  Peter's  slashing  blows, 

And  cries  of  valiant  rage. 

"  As  sweet  as  summer  did  he  seem — 

The  gallant  knight  of  Beam  ! — 
When,  on  the  morrow,  from  his  page, 

He  came  the  truth  to  learn. 
13 


146  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

1  Certes,  dear  boy,' — he  smiled,  and  said- 

'  I  toiled  to  slay  the  boar, 
And  so  my  dreams  were  fever-wild  : 

The  thing  will  chance  no  more.' 

"  But,  with  the  second  night,  once  more 

Sir  Peter  left  his  bed, 
And  seized  his  naked  sword,  and  placed 

His  basnet  on  his  head  ; 
And  shouted  forth  his  battle-cry, 

And  waged  his  fight  amain ; 
While  little  Gracien,  quite  aghast, 

Escaped  the  room  again. 

"  So  passed  his  nights,  until  he  pined  ; 

And  now,  as  all  may  see, 
By  his  wan  looks,  the  gallant  knight 

Is  stricken  mortally. 
Ten  months  agone  he  slew  the  boar, 

And  there  are  men  who  say 
His  wife,  who  augurs  of  his  death, 

Can  name  his  dying  day. 


SIR  PETER  OF  BEARN.  147 

"  He  here  at  Ortaise,  with  the  earl — 

She  with  her  friends  in  Spain — 
Such  thing,  Sir  John,  should  hardly  be ; 

The  wife  should  come  again. 
But  she  is  versed  in  mysteries, 

Of  necromantic  art, 
And  such  give  cunning  to  the  brain, 

But  poison  to  the  heart." 

So  said  my  friend  Sir  Ernalton : 

I  mused  his  story's  wonder — 
It  was  a  complex  web,  which  I 

Might  scarcely  win  asunder. 
"  Doubtless,"  I  said  at  last,  "  the  dame 

Knew  more  than  she  would  say 
Of  the  great  beast  Sir  Peter  slew 

On  that  unlucky  day. 

"  Perchance,  enlightened  by  her  art, 

She  knew  the  mighty  boar 
Was  some  fair  knight,  who  rode  that  land 

In  merry  days  of  yore, 


148  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

And  angered  some  old  forest  god, 

Whose  terrible  decree 
Thus  brutalized  the  gentleman 

From  his  humanity.  . 

"  This  seems  quite  strange — nay,  wonderful — 

But,  nathless,  we  are  told 
Of  many  cases  similar 

In  chronicles  of  old. 
For  instance — and  a  score  of  such 

My  reading  could  impart — 
The  cavalier,  young  Acteon,* 

Was  changed  into  a  hart." 

"  Sir  John" — said  good  Sir  Ernalton — 

"  Pray  make  that  story  clear : 
I  have  not  heard  of  Acteon, 

And  much  desire  to  hear." 

*Shakspeare,  and    the    old  writers  generally, — Lord  Berne 
among-  the  rest, — spell  Actaeon  as  I  have  done  above  ;  the  deli 
on  the   diphthong,  in  pronunciation,  is  discordant    in  verse 
rapid  measure,  and  for  that   reason  I  have  retained   the    ancie 
English  spelling. 


SIR  PETER  OF  BEARN.  149 

Then  I  replied,  "  This  Acteon, 

Of  whom  you  seek  to  know, 
Was  a  right  valiant  gentleman, 

Who  flourished  long  ago. 

"  The  youth  was  fond  of  hound  and  horn, 

And  all  fair  forest  sport : 
And,  one  day,  riding  in  the  woods — 

As  chronicles  report — 
He  roused  a  very  noble  hart, 

And  pressed  so  eagerly 
Upon  that  chase,  that  soon  he  lost 

His  hounds  and  company. 

"  Holding  his  way  for  all  that  day, 

With  speed  and  courage  keen, 
At  setting  of  the  sun  he  reached 

A  meadow  close  and  green — 
A  meadow  with  a  pleasant  brook, 

Shut  in  with  beechen  shades — 
And  caught  Diana  bathing  there 

With  all  her  snowy  maids. 

13* 


150  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

"  The  goddess  was  confused  enough, 

But,  towering  in  her  pride, 
Refused  her  naked  loveliness 

By  any  art  to  hide, 
And  chid  her  blushing  girls,  who  sought, 

By  crouching  or  by  flying, 
To  shun  the  youth  who  sate  his  horse 

Their  naked  charms  espying. 

"  c  Ah,  hunter  vile !' — Diana  said — 

*  Whoever  sent  you  here 
Was  not  your  friend,  as  presently 

Shall  very  well  appear. 
I  will  not  that  your  tongue  shall  speak 

The  secret  of  your  eyes : 
Your  speech  shall  never  put  to  shame 

Our  maiden  modesties. 

"  *  Take  shape  and  likeness  of  the  hart 
Which  you  have  chased  to-day  ! 

It  is  my  will :  so  let  it  be.' — 
And,  sir,  old  writers  say, 


SIR  PETER  OF  BEARN.  151 

Young  Acteon,  with  Diana's  words, 

Assumed  the  horned  looks 
Of  the  wood-hart,  whose  natural  love 

Is  for  the  water-brooks. 

"  And  finally,  Sir  Ernalton, 

The  same  old  writers  show, 
That  as  the  human  quadruped 

Went  plaining  to  and  fro, 
And  gazing  on  his  slender  knees, 

His  hounds  came  up  with  him, 
And,  urged  on  by  the  cruel  maids, 

Soon  tore  him  limb  from  limb. 

"  This  is  the  tale  of  Acteon : 

And  sad  Sir  Peter's  dame, 
I  nothing  doubt,  from  all  you  say, 

Knows  more  than  she  will  name 
Of  that  great  boar  her  husband  slew — 

And  so,  perhaps,  should  be 
Excused,  in  somewhat,  for  her  flight, 

And  seeming  cruelty." 


152  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

"  It  may  be,"  said  Sir  Ernalton, 

"  That  what  you  say  is  true  : 
But,  sure,  the  dame  deals  cruelly 

Where  tenderness  is  due. 
The  husband  is  a  dying  man, 

And,  sir — I  must  maintain — 
If  he  had  slain  St.  Hubert's  self, 

The  wife  should  come  again." 


OUR   LADY'S   DOG. 

THE  Genoese  had  crossed  the  seas, 

And,  with  a  mighty  host, 
Besieged  a  stately  city, 

Upon  the  Moorish  coast. 
What  time  they  lay  at  leaguer  there, 

A  strange  event  befell, 
Whereof  in  this  fair  book  of  mine, 

I  deem  it  good  to  tell. 

It  was  at  holy  Easter — 

An  hour  before  the  day  : — 
The  Christian  host,  with  watches  set, 

In  heavy  slumber  lay, 
When,  pouring  from  the  city's  ports, 

The  Paynim  army  came, 
Led  by  the  Moslem  Afringor, 

A  prince  of  valiant  fame. 


154  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

With  night,  and  cloud,  their  march  to  shroud, 

And  stealthy  as  the  sea 
When  as  its  waters  seek  the  shore, 

And  gird  it  silently, 
The  enemies  of  God  drew  on 

To  smite  our  slumbering  host — 
Drew  on  unwitnessed  by  the  watch 

Asleep  at  every  post. 

But  for  a  holy  miracle, 

In  mercy  deigned  to  us, 
The  Cross  had  sunk  that  night  before 

The  Crescent  orgillous. 
But  as  the  Paynim  host  drew  on, 

A  train  of  damsels  bright, 
Led  by  a  lady  fair  of  brow, 

Stood  clearly  in  their  sight. 

And  in  her  right  hand,  by  a  leash 

Of  twisted  silk  and  gold, 
A  milk-white  dog,  of  mighty  thews, 

The  lady  bright  did  hold. 


155 


Brave  sentinel !  with  bay,  and  yell, 

The  beast  alarum  made, 
Until  the  Christian  host  were  roused 

And  gallantly  arrayed. 

The  Christian  knights  see  with  amaze 

The  lady  and  her  train, 
As  visible  as  if  by  day, 

Before  them  on  the  plain  : 
And  cross  their  brows  in  holy  awe, 

As  steadily  they  go 
To  do  the  lady's  battle 

Against  the  Paynim  foe. 

The  Moors,  aghast,  in  terror  passed 

To  win  back  to  their  town ; 
But  glaive  and  spear  assailed  their  rear, 

And  bore  their  strongest  down. 
And,  it  is  said,  the  milk-white  hound 

Was  foremost  in  the  fight, 
And  with  his  bristling  jaws  slew  more 

Than  any  armed  knight. 


156  FROISSART  BALLADS. 

With  rise  of  sun,  and  battle  done, 

No  man  saw  longer  there 
The  lady  of  the  shining  brow, 

Or  train  of  damsels  fair. 
But  the  white  hound,  without  a  wound, 

Snuffing  the  slaughter  strode, 
And  came  back  to  the  Christian  tents, 

And  with  the  host  abode. 

And  then  the  men-at-arms  who  saw 

The  wonders  of  that  night, 
Called  the  brave  beast  OUR  LADY'S  DOG 

For  sure,  the  lady  bright, 
All  said,  was  Mary  Mother, 

Who  bare  the  blessed  Lord, 
And  hates  the  race  of  Mahoun, 

And  loves  the  Holy  Word. 

And  thenceforth  did  our  Lady's  dog 
Keep  constant  watch  and  good, 

And  gentle  nurture  had  he, 
And  sweet  and  dainty  food; 


157 


Our  Christians  saw,  with  pious  awe, 
The  white  crest  of  the  hound, 

As  nightly,  in  his  watchfulness, 
He  went  upon  his  round. 


14 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS 


THE   MOUNTAINS. 


"  Lowland,  your  sports  are  low  as  isfcyour  seat ; 
The  Highland  games  and  minds  are  high  and  great." 

TAYLOR'S  BRAES  OF  MAR. 


I. 


THE  axle  of  the  Lowland  wain 

Goes  groaning  from  the  fields  of  grain : 

The  Lowlands  suit  with  craft,  and  gain. 

Good  Ceres,  with  her  plump  brown  hands, 
And  wheaten  sheaves  that  burst  their  bands, 
Is  scornful  of  the  mountain  lands. 

But  mountain  lands,  so  bare'of  corn, 
Have  that  which  puts,  in  turn,  to  scorn 
The  Goddess  of  the  brimming  horn. 
14* 


162  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Go  mark  them,  when,  with  tramp  and  jar, 
Of  furious  steeds,  and  flashing  car, 
The  Thunderer  sweeps  them  from  afar. 

Go  mark  them  when  their  beauty  lies 
Drooping  and  veiled  with  violet  dyes, 
Beneath  the  light  of  breathless  skies. 

No  lands  of  fat  increase  may  vie 

With  their  brave  wealth — for  heart  and  ey( 

Of  loveliness  and  majesty. 


II. 

I  stand  upon  an  upland  lawn ; 

The  river  mists  are  quite  withdrawn — 

It  is  three  hours  beyond  the  dawn. 

Autumn  works  well !  but  yesterday 
The  mountain  hues  were  green  and  gray 
The  elves  have  surely  passed  this  way. 


THE  MOUNTAINS.  163 

With  crimping  hand,  and  frosty  lip, 
That  merry  elfin  fellowship, 
Robin  and  Puck  and  Numbernip, 

Through  the  clear  night  have  swiftly  plied 
Their  tricksy  arts  of  change,  and  dyed 
Of  all  bright  hues,  the  mountain  side. 

In  an  old  tale  Arabian, 

Sharp  hammer-strokes,  not  dealt  by  man, 

Startle  a  slumbering  caravan. 

At  dawn,  the  wondering  merchants  see 

A  city,  built  up  gloriously, 

Of  jasper,  and  gold,  and  porphyry. 

That  night-built  city  of  the  sands 
Showed  not  as  show  our  mountain  lands, 
Changed  in  a  night  by  elfin  hands. 

We  may  not  find,  in  all  the  scene, 
An  unchanged  bough  or  leaf,  I  ween, 
Save  of  the  constant  evergreen. 


164  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

The  maple,  on  his  slope  so  cool, 
Wears  his  new  motley,  like  the  fool 
Prankt  out  to  lead  the  games  of  Yule. 

Or  rather  say,  that  tree  of  pride 
Stands,  in  his  mantle  many-dyed, 
Bold  monarch  of  the  mountain  side. 

The  ash — a  fiery  chief  is  he, 
High  in  the  highland  heraldry : 
He  wears  his  proud  robes  gallantly. 

Torch-bearers  are  the  grim  black  pines — 
Their  torches  are  the  flaming  vines 
Bright  on  the  mountain's  skyward  lines. 

The  blushing  dogwood,  thicketed, 
Marks  everywhere  the  torrent's  bed, 
With  winding  lines  of  perfect  red. 

The  oak,  so  haughty  in  his  green, 
Looks  craven  in  an  altered  mien, 
And  whimples  in  the  air  so  keen. 


THE  MOUNTAINS.  165 


The  hickories,  tough  although  they  be, 
The  chestnut,  and  the  tulip-tree, 
These  too  have  felt  the  witchery. 

The  tree  of  life,  and  dusky  pine, 
And  hemlock,  swart  and  saturnine — 
Staunch  like  a  demon  by  his  mine — 

These  still  retain  a  solemn  dress,- 
But,  sombre  as  they  be,  no  less 
Make  portion  of  the  loveliness. 


IIL 

Just  now  no  whisper  of  the  air 
Awoke,  or  wandered,  any  where 
In  all  that  scene  so  wild  and  fair. 

But  hark  I  upborne  by  swift  degrees, 
Come  forth  the  mountain  melodies — 
The  music  of  the  wind-tost  trees. 


166  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

And,  startled  by  these  utterings, 
The  parted  leaves,  like  living  things, 
Skirl  up,  and  flock  on  shining  wings. 

And,  rising  from  the  rainbow  rout, 
A  hawk  goes  swooping  round  about — 
And  hark  !  a  rifle-shot,  and  shout. 

The  rifle  of  the  mountaineer — 

I  know  its  tongue,  so  quick  and  clear — 

Is  out,  to-day,  against  the  deer. 

Right  hardy  are  the  men,  I  trow, 
Who  build  upon  the  mountain's  brow, 
And  love  the  gun,  and  scorn  the  plough. 

Not  such  soft  pleasures  pamper  these 
As  lull  the  subtil  Bengalese, 
Or  islanders  of  Indian  seas. 

A  rugged  hand  to  cast  their  seed — 

A  rifle  for  the  red  deer's  speed — 

With  these  their  swarming  huts  they  feed. 


THE  MOUNTAINS.  167 

Such  men  are  freedom's  body  guard ; 
On  their  high  rocks,  so  cold  and  hard, 
They  keep  her  surest  watch  and  ward. 

Of  such  was  William  Tell,  whose  bow 
Hurtled  its  shafts  so  long  ago, 
At  red  Morgarten's  overthrow. 

Of  such  was  Arnold  Winkelreid, 
Who  saved  his  fatherland  at  need, 
And  won  in  death  heroic  meed. 

That  deed  will  live  a  thousand  years  1 

Young  Arnold,  with  his  Switzer  peers, 

Stood  hemmed  and  hedged  with  Austrian  spears. 

No  mountain  sword  might  pierce  that  hedge, 
But  Arnold  formed  the  Bernese  wedge — 
Himself,  unarmed,  its  trusty  edge. 

His  naked  arms  he  opened  wide, 

"  Make  way  for  liberty,"  he  cried, 

And  clasped  the  hungry  spears — and  died. 


168  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

He  made  a  gap  for  Liberty, 

His  comrades  filled  it  desperately — 

And  Switzerland  again  was  free. 


IV. 

But  mark !  on  yonder  summit  clear, 
Stands  the  bold  hunter  of  the  deer, 
The  rifle-bearing  mountaineer. 

From  this  far  hill,  we  may  not  now 
Mark  the  free  courage  of  his  brow, 
Or  the  clear  eyes,  which  well  avow 

The  manly  virtues  of  a  heart, 
Untrained  to  any  baser  art, 
And  bold  to  dare  its  lot  and  part. 

But  a  strong  vision  may  define, 
His  gaunt  form's  every  giant  line, 
Motionless  in  the  broad  sunshine. 


THE  MOUNTAINS.  169 

And  his  long  gun  we  note  and  know — 
That  weapon  dire  of  overthrow, 
More  terrible  than  Tell's  true  bow. 

But  mark  again — his  step  descends ; 
And  now  his  stately  stature  blends 
With  the  vague  path  whereon  he  wends. 

Bare  is  the  gray  peak  where  he  stood — 
Again  the  blue  sky  seems  to  brood 
Over  a  lovely  solitude. 


V. 

Our  life  on  earth  is  full  of  cares, 
And  the  worn  spirit  oft  despairs 
Under  the  groaning  load  it  bears. 

When  such  dark  moods  will  force  their  way, 
When  the  soul  cowers  beneath  their  sway, 
Go  forth  as  I  have  done  to-day. 
15 


170  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Boon  nature  is  a  foe  severe 

To  pallid  brow,  and  shadowy  fear, 

And  lifts  the  fallen  to  valiant  cheer. 

Heed  her  good  promptings — muse  and  learn- 

And,  haply,  to  thy  toils  return 

With  a  clear  heart,  and  courage  stern. 


FLORENCE   VANE.* 

I  LOVED  thee  long  and  dearly, 

Florence  Vane ; 
My  life's  bright  dream,  and  early, 

Hath  come  again ; 
I  renew,  in  my  fond  vision, 

My  heart's  dear  pain, 
My  hope,  and  thy  derision, 

Florence  Vane. 

The  ruin  lone  and  hoary, 

The  ruin  old, 
Where  thou  didst  hark  my  story, 

At  even  told, — 


*  This  little  poem,  and  «  Young  Rosalie  Lee,"  were  published 
some  years  ago,  and  met  with  more  favour  than  I  could  ever 
perceive  their  just  claim  to.  I  am  deterred  by  the  success  of 
these  trifles  from  venturing  upon  the  correction  of  some  faults 
which  I  find  in  them — but  which  others  may  not  consider  faults. 
A  reader's  favourite  verse  might  be  weeded  out  in  the  process  of 
correction. 


MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

That  spot — the  hues  Elysian 
Of  sky  and  plain — 

I  treasure  in  my  vision, 
Florence  Vane. 

Thou  wast  lovelier  than  the  roses 

In  their  prime ; 
Thy  voice  excelled  the  closes 

Of  sweetest  rhyme ; 
Thy  heart  was  as  a  river 

Without  a  main. 
Would  I  had  loved  thee  never, 

Florence  Vane  ! 

But,  fairest,  coldest  wonder  ! 

Thy  glorious  clay 
Lieth  the  green  sod  under — 

Alas  the  day  ! 
And  it  boots  not  to  remember 

Thy  disdain — 

To  quicken  love's  pale  ember, 
.  Florence  Vane. 


FLORENCE  VANE.  173 

The  lilies  of  the  valley 

By  young  graves  weep, 
The  pansies  love  to  dally 

Where  maidens  sleep ; 
May  their  bloom,  in  beauty  vying, 

Never  wane 
Where  thine  earthly  part  is  lying, 

Florence  Vane ! 


15* 


THE    POWER   OF   THE   BARDS. 

WISDOM,  and  pomp,  and  valour, 

And  love,  and  martial  glory — 
These  gleam  up  from  the  shadows 

Of  England's  elder  story. 

If  thou  wouldst  pierce  those  shadows 

Dark  on  her  life  of  old, 
Follow  where  march  her  minstrels, 

With  music  sweet  and  bold. 

Right  faithfully  they  guide  us 

The  darksome  way  along, 
Driving  the  ghosts  of  ruin 

With  joyous  harp  and  song. 

They  raise  up  clearest  visions, 
To  greet  us  every  where — 


THE  POWER  OF  THE  BARDS.  175 

They  bring  the  brave  old  voices 
To  stir  the  sunny  air. 

We  see  the  ships  of  conquest 

White  on  the  narrow  sea ; 
We  mark  from  Battle  Abbey, 

The  plumes  of  Normandy. 

We  see  the  royal  Rufus 

Go  out  the  chase  to  lead — 
Wat  TyrePs  flying  arrow — 

The  dead  king's  flying  steed. 

We  go  with  gallant  Henry, 

Stealing  to  Woodstock  bower, 
To  meet  his  gentle  mistress, 

In  twilight's  starry  hour. 

We  see  Blondel  and  Richard, 

We  hear  the  lays  they  sing  ; 
We  mark  the  dames  adjudging 

Betwixt  the  bard  and  King. 


176  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

We  join  the  iron  Barons, 
Doing  that  famous  deed — 

Wringing  the  great  old  charter 
From  John  at  Runnymeade. 

We  ride  with  Harry  Monmouth 
On  Shrewsbury's  bloody  bounds  ; 

We  hear  the  fat  knight's  moral, 
On  Percy  Hotspur's  wounds. 

We  mark  the  bannered  Roses — 
The  red  rose,  and  the  white, 

And  Crookback's  barded  charger 
Foaming  in  Barnet  fight. 

We  see  bluff  Harry  Tudor, 
To  royal  Windsor  ride, 

With  fair-necked  Bullen  reining 
A  palfrey  at  his  side. 

We  join  Queen  Bess,  the  virgin, 
And  prancingly  go  forth, 


THE  POWER  OF  THE  BARDS. 

To  hold  that  stately  revel 
At  stately  Kenilworth. 

We  join  the  ruder  revels, 
Under  the  greenwood  tree, 

Where  outlaw  songs  are  chaunted, 
And  cans  clink  merrily. 

We  join  the  curtal  friar, 
And  doughty  Robin  Hood, 

And  Scathelock,  and  the  miller, 
At  feast  in  green  Sherwood. 

We  greet  Maid  Marian  bringing 
The  collops  of  the  deer, 

And  pitchers  of  metheglin 

To  crown  the  woodland  cheer. 

We  lie  down  with  the  robbers 
At  coming  of  the  dark, 

We  rise,  with  their  uprising, 
At  singing  of  the  lark. 


177 


178  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

And,  blending  with  his  matins, 
We  hear  the  abbey  chimes — 
The  chimes  of  the  stately  abbeys 

Of  the  proud  priestly  times. 
#  *  *  * 

f 

And  owe  we  not  these  visions 

Fresh  to  the  natural  eye — 
This  presence  in  old  story — 
To  the  good  art  and  high? — 

The  high  art  of  the  poet, 
The  maker  of  the  lays? 

Doth  not  his  magic  lead  us 
Back  to  the  ancient  days  ? 

For  evermore  be  honoured 
The  voices  sweet,  and  bold, 

That  thus  can  charm  the  shadows 
From  the  true  life  of  old. 


TO   EDITH. 

DEAR  EDITH,  I  am  pondering  now, 
With  the  sweet  south  wind  on  my  brow, 
And  thoughtful  eyes,  which  only  see 
The  past,  in  sky,  and  grass,  and  tree. 

Into  the  past  I  go  to  seek 
The  lustre  of  thy  maiden  cheek, 
And  all  thy  graces  debonair — 
I  go  to  seek,  and  find  them  there. 

Canst  thou  revisit,  as  I  do, 

The  time  wherein  I  learned  to  woo  1 

The  time  when,  young  in  thought  and  years, 

We  learned  love's  lore  of  smiles  and  tears? 

Our  early  love  found  early  cure, 
But,  cousin  mine,  of  this  be  sure — 


180  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

In  that  fair  time  we  loved  as  well 
As  stateliest  lord  and  damosell. 

If  thou  didst  not,  pray  tell  me  why 
Thy  soul  stood  beckoning  in  thine  eye* — 
Playing  the  sweet  mime  with  my  own, 
And  evermore  with  mine  alone  1 

If  I  loved  not,  why  should  it  be 
That,  quickened  by  a  thought  of  thee, 
My  spirit  goes  forth  fiery  fast 
To  meet  thee  in  the  radiant  past  ? 

Ah !  break  not  in  thine  ignorance 
The  golden  rule  of  that  romance, 
But  let  it  hold  thy  riper  age, 
As  mine,  in  happy  vassalage. 

*  I  find  that  this  line  is  almost  identical  with  one  in  a  poem 
addressed  by  Lord  Carbery  (1672)  to  his  wife.  My  verses  are 
too  flimsy  to  be  meddled  with,  or  I  would  put  another  in  its 
place. 


TO  EDITH.  181 

As  mine  ! — by  Eros,  to  be  free 
From  bondage  of  that  memory, 
Were  but  to  wear  a  colder  chain — 
Were  but  to  give  my  bliss  for  pain. 


16 


LIFE  IN  THE  AUTUMN  WOODS. 

SUMMER  has  gone ! 

And  fruitful  autumn  has  advanced  so  far, 
That  there  is  warmth  not  heat  in  the  broad  sun, 
And  you  may  look  with  steadfast  gaze  upon 

The  ardours  of  his  car ; 
The  stealthy  frosts,  whom  his  spent  looks  embolden, 

Are  making  the  green  leaves  golden. 

What  a  brave  splendour 
Is  in  the  October  air !     How  rich  and  clear — 
How  life-full,  and  all  joyous !  We  must  render 
Love  to  the  Spring-time,  with  its  sproutings  tender, 

As  to  a  child  quite  dear — 
But  autumn  is  a  noon,  prolonged,  of  glory — 

A  manhood  not  yet  hoary. 

I  love  the  woods 
In  this  best  season  of  the  liberal  year ; 


LIFE  IN  THE  AUTUMN  WOODS.  183 

I  love  to  haunt  their  whispering  solitudes, 
And  give  myself  to  melancholy  moods, 

With  no  intruder  near  ; 
And  find  strange  lessons,  as  I  sit  and  ponder, 

In  every  natural  wonder. 

But  not  alone 

As  Shakspeare's  melancholy  courtier  loved  Ardennes, 
Love  I  the  autumn  forest ;  and  I  own 
I  would  not  oft  have  mused  as  he,  but  flown 

To  hunt  with  Amiens — 
And  little  recked,  as  up  the  bold  deer  bounded, 

Of  the  sad  creature  wounded. 

That  gentle  knight, 

Sir  William  Wortley,  weary  of  his  part, 
In  painted  pomps,  which  he  could  read  aright, 
Built  WarnclhTe  lodge— for  that  he  did  delight 

To  hear  the  belling  hart. 
It  was  a  gentle  taste,  but  its  sweet  sadness 

Yields  to  the  hunter's  madness. 


184  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

What  passionate 

And  wild  delight  is  in  the  proud  swift  chase ! 
Go  out  what  time  the  lark,  at  heaven's  red  gate, 
Soars  joyously  singing — quite  infuriate 
With  the  high  pride  of  his  place ; 
What  time  the  unrisen  sun  arrays  the  morning 
In  its  first  bright  adorning. 

Hark  the  shrill  horn — 
As  sweet  to  hear  as  any  clarion — 
Piercing  with  silver  call  the  ear  of  morn ; 
And  mark  the  steeds,  stout  Curtal,  and  Topthorn, 

And  Greysteil,  and  the  Don — 
Each  one  of  them  his  fiery  mood  displaying 

With  pawing  and  with  neighing. 

Urge  your  swift  horse 

After  the  crying  hounds  in  this  fresh  hour — 
Vanquish  high  hills — stem  perilous  streams  perforce — 
Where  the  glades  ope  give  free  wings  to  your  course — 

And  you  will  know  the  power 
Of  the  brave  chase — and  how  of  griefs,  the  sorest, 

A  cure  is  in  the  forest. 


LIFE  IN  THE  AUTUMN  WOODS.  185 

Or  stalk  the  deer  : 

The  same  red  fires  of  dawn  illume  the  hills, 
The  gladdest  sounds  are  crowding  on  your  ear, 
There  is  a  life  in  all  the  atmosphere ; — 

Your  very  nature  fills 
With  the  fresh  hour,  as  up  the  hills  aspiring, 

You  climb  with  limbs  untiring. 

It  is  a  fair 

And  pleasant  sight,  to  see  the  mountain  stag, 
With  the  long  sweep  of  his  swift  walk,  repair 
To  join  his  brothers ;  or  the  plethoric  bear 

Lying  on  some  high  crag, 
With  pinky  eyes  half  closed,  but  broad  head  shaking, 

As  gad-flies  keep  him  waking. 

And  these  you  see, 

And,  seeing  them,  you  travel  to  their  death, 
With  a  slow  stealthy  step  from  tree  to  tree — 
Noting  the  wind,  however  faint  it  be  ; 
The  hunter  draws  a  breath 
In  times  like  these,  which  he  will  say  repays  him 
For  all  the  care  that  waylays  him. 
16* 


186  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

A  strong  joy  fills — 

A  rapture  far  beyond  the  tongue's  cold  power — 
My  heart  in  golden  autumn :  fills  and  thrills ! 
And  I  would  rather  stalk  the  breezy  hills — 

Descending  to  my  bower 
Nightly  by  the  bold  spirit  of  health  attended— 

Than  pine  where  life  is  splendid. 


TO   MY  DAUGHTER   LILY. 

Six  changeful  years  are  gone,  Lily, 

Since  you  were  born,  to  be 
A  darling  to  your  mother  good, 

A  happiness  to  me  ; 
A  little,  shivering,  feeble  thing 

You  were  to  touch  and  view, 
But  we  could  see  a  promise  in 

Your  baby  eyes  of  blue. 

* 

You  fastened  on  our  hearts,  Lily, 

As  day  by  day  wore  by, 
And  beauty  grew  upon  your  cheeks, 

And  deepened  in  your  eye ; 
A  year  made  dimples  in  your  hands, 

And  plumped  your  little  feet, 
And  you  had  learned  some  merry  ways 

Which  we  thought  very  sweet. 


188  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

And  when  the  first  sweet  word,  Lily, 

Your  wee  mouth  learned  to  say, 
Your  mother  kissed  it  fifty  times, 

And  marked  the  famous  day. 
I  know  not  even  now,  my  dear, 

If  it  were  quite  a  word, 
But  your  proud  mother  surely  knew, 

For  she  the  sound  had  heard. 

When  you  were  four  years  old,  Lily, — 

You  were  my  little  friend, 
And  we  had  walks,  and  nightly  plays, 

And  talks  without  an  end. 
You  little  ones  are  sometimes  wise, 

For  you  are  undefiled  ; 
A  grave  grown  man  will  start  to  hear 

The  strange  words  of  a  child. 

When  care  pressed  on  our  house,  Lily,- 
Pressed  with  an  iron  hand — 

I  hated  mankind  for  the  wrong 
Which  festered  in  the  land ; 


TO  MY  DAUGHTER  LILY.  189 

But  when  I  read  your  young  frank  face,— 

Its  meanings,  sweet  and  good, 
My  charities  grew  clear  again, 

I  felt  my  brotherhood. 

And  sometimes  it  would  be,  Lily, 

My  faith  in  God  grew  cold, 
For  I  saw  virtue  go  in  rags, 

And  vice  in  cloth  of  gold  ; 
But  in  your  innocence,  my  child, 

And  in  your  mother's  love, 
I  learned  those  lessons  of  the  heart 

Which  fasten  it  above. 

At  last  our  cares  are  gone,  Lily, 

And  peace  is  back  again, 
As  you  have  seen  the  sun  shine  out 

After  the  gloomy  rain  ; 
In  the  good  land  where  we  were  born, 

We  may  be  happy  still, 
A  life  of  love  will  bless  our  home — 

The  house  upon  the  hill. 


190  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Thanks  to  your  gentle  face,  Lily  ! 

Its  innocence  was  strong 
To  keep  me  constant  to  the  right, 

When  tempted  by  the  wrong. 
The  little  ones  were  dear  to  Hirn 

Who  died  upon  the  Rood — 
I  ask  his  gentle  care  for  you, 

And  for  your  mother  good. 


THE  MURDER  OF  CORNSTALK.* 

THE  miller  sate  at  his  cabin  door — 
A  man  of  seventy  years  and  more ; 
It  was  old  Michael  Beattison, 
The  gray-beard  miller  of  Crooked  Run. 

The  summer  boughs  of  a  chestnut  spread 
Over  his  white  and  reverend  head, 

*  The  Shawnee  chief  Cornstalk,  head  of  the  great  northern 
confederacy  of  tribes,  was  murdered  by  the  whites  at  Point 
Pleasant  in  1777.  The  circumstances  attending  his  death  are 
given  faithfully  in  the  poem.  See  Kerchival's  Virginia  Valley, 
and  Howe's  Virginia  Collections.  Crooked  Run  is  a  small  stream 
near  and  running  parallel  with  the  Ohio ;  it  empties  into  the 
Kanawha.  On  the  strip  between  this  little  stream  and  the  Ohio 
was  fought  the  battle  of  Point  Pleasant  between  the  Virginians 
under  Andrew  Lewis  and  the  warriors  of  the  northern  tribes  led 
by  Cornstalk — October,  1774.  At  the  date  of  the  murder — three 
years  after  the  battle — Arbuckle  was  captain  of  the  fort  at  Point 
Pleasant.  Tradition  and  history  represent  the  Cornstalk  chief 
as  the  greatest  and  wisest  of  the  great  Indian  "  kings." 


192  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

And,  catching  the  west  wind  in  their  leaves, 
Rustled  against  his  cabin  eaves. 
The  wind  that  stirred  the  lintel  tree 
Touched  the  old  man  tenderly. 

Serene  of  look  the  miller  sate 
Erect  in  his  wicker  chair  of  state, 
And  now  and  then  a  smile  would  grace 
The  pleasant  lines  of  his  fresh  hale  face. 
Was  it  because  his  earnest  mill, 
With  merry  clank,  and  clamour  shrill, 
Discoursed  so  well  beneath  the  hill  ? 
Or  is  it  because  some  thought  swells  high 
Of  happy  scenes  in  the  time  gone  by  ? 

The  miller's  hoary  pow  has  store 
Of  frontier  deeds,  and  Indian  lore, 
And  he  can  show  old  times  as  well 
As  any  written  chronicle. 

I,  with  another,  crossed  the  green, 
Saying,  "  Old  gentleman,  good  e'en," 


THE  MURDER  OF  CORNSTALK.  193 

And  Michael,  with  fair  courtesy, 
Gave  the  good  even  back  to  me. 
"  Michael,"  I  said,  "  my  friend  is  taking 
Notes  for  a  good  book  he  is  making, 
And  much  desires  to  hear  you  tell 
The  tale  you  bear  in  mind  so  well — 
How  the  great  sachem  long  ago 
Was  killed  with  Ellinipsico." 

A  happy  man  seemed  Michael  then. 
"  Good  sirs,"  quoth  he,  "  I  was  but  ten, 
When  Cornstalk  died ;  but  older  men 
Have  told  me  how  the  murder  chanced. 
My  life  is  very  far  advanced, 
But  not  enough  that  I  should  know, 
Of  things  that  chanced  so  long  ago, 
Like  one  who  saw  the  very  deed." 

"  Michael,"  I  said,  "  there  is  no  need 
To  parley  so  ;  pray  tell  the  story." 

Freely  upspake  the  old  man  hoary, 
"  Sirs,  I  will  tell  what  I  have  heard. 
17 


194  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

In  seventy-seven  some  scouts  brought  word 

That  the  great  chief  was  coming  down, 

From  his  Chilicothe  town, 

To  meet  Arbuckle  at  the  fort. 

And  shortly  after  this  report 

He  came ;  myself  was  there  that  day, 

For  folk  had  come,  from  miles  away, 

In  crowds  to  see  the  Shawnee  king. 

The  Winnebago,  Eagle-wing, 

Came  with  him,  for  the  two  were  friends, 

And  wrought  together  for  their  ends. 

I  saw  them  come,  and  can  declare 

What  like  of  men  the  chieftains  were. 

The  Shawnee  was  a  man  of  care, 

A  grave,  and  quiet  man,  and  old, 

But  upright  in  his  gait,  and  bold, 

And  with  a  look  about  the  eyes 

Which  said  that  he  was  good  and  wise. 

He  left  his  arms  beyond  the  river, 

And  came  up,  like  a  sage  lawgiver, 

In  flowing  robes.     The  Eagle-wing 

Was  younger  than  the  Shawnee  king, 


THE  MURDER  OF  CORNSTALK.          195 

But  a  great  chief  and  orator. 

The  two  had  fought  in  seventy-four 

On  that  same  spot,  and  Cornstalk's  look 

Calm  survey  of  the  country  took. 

He  raised  his  robes,  and  touched  a  scar, 

And  said  some  words  of  Dunmore's  war, 

And  smiled — and  then,  with  thoughtful  port, 

Entered  the  gateway  of  the  fort. 

"  His  words  and  voice  were  soft,  and  low, 

But  there  were  men  at  hand  who  said 

That  it  was  craft  that  they  were  so  ; 

For  on  the  bloody  day,  and  dread, 

Of  that  great  fight,  when  Lewis  thinned 

His  lines,  the  old  chief's  cry  rang  out 

As  loud  as  any  stormy  wind ; 

There  was  a  tempest  in  his  shout 

That  drowned  the  guns.     '  Be  strong — be  strong,' 

Was  Cornstalk's  battle-cry,  and  long 

The  frontier  bore  its  sound  in  mind. 

Our  women  heard  it  in  the  wind 


196  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

That  swept  the  forests,  bare  and  brown, 

When  autumn  nights  had  settled  down, 

And  fear  sat  by  the  chimney  side  ; 

And  hushed  their  children  when  they  cried, 

In  wantonness  of  baby  grief, 

With  stories  of  the  Cornstalk  chief. 

"  What  drew  the  Shawnee  to  the  fort, 

Indeed  I  cannot  well  report. 

Some  said  he  came  down  as  a  spy — 

If  so  he  merited  to  die. 

But  others  have  it  that  he  came — 

And  this  seems  truer — to  proclaim 

That  the  great  northern  tribes  were  won 

By  British  arts,  and  he  must  run 

With  the  strong  stream,  unless  we  brought 

Sure  aid  to  him — and  such  he  sought. 

This  sounds  more  like  the  Shawnee  king. 

However,  after  counselling, 

Our  men — to  make  my  story  short — 

Refused  to  let  him  leave  the  fort. 


THE  MURDER  OF  CORNSTALK.  197 

A  month  passed  by.     The  Eagle-wing, 
Denied  his  freedom,  seemed  to  pine ; 
But  the  stout-hearted  Shawnee  king — 
They  said  who  saw  him — gave  no  sign 
Of  moodiness,  but  seemed  to  be 
Careless  of  his  captivity. 
He  kept  his  head,  and  heart,  erect, 
And,  with  courageous  counsel,  checked 
The  misery  of  his  pining  friend ; 
Saying,  '  The  oak  should  never  bend' — 
And  to  the  white  men — *  We  are  here, 
And  helpless,  but  we  have  no  fear ; 
I — weary  and  old  and  worn — am  ready 
To  live  or  die.'    His  looks  were  steady — 
Serene  his  voice — erect  his  head — 
When  valiant  words  like  these  he  said. 

"  I  said  a  long  month  passed  away. 
In  the  fifth  week,  one  quiet  day, 
The  Shawnee  sachem,  with  a  wand, 
Was  mapping,  on  a  floor  of  sand, 
17* 


198  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

The  winding  rivers  of  the  west. 
Arbuckle,  Stuart,  and  the  rest 
Were  looking  on,  when  suddenly 

The  old  chief  paused  with  listening  ear, 
As  one  who  catches  some  far  cry, 

Then  raised  his  face  with  pleasant  cheer, 
And  smiled,  and  said  that  he  had  heard 
*  The  whistle  of  a  Shawnee  bird.' 
These  words  to  Eagle-wing  he  said, 
And  left  the  hut  with  stately  tread. 

"  He  stept  three  steps  beyond  the  door. 

The  river*  passed  with  a  solemn  roar, 

But  over  its  sounds  from  the  westward  shore, 

Where  the  dark-green  boughs  of  the  forest  hung, 

He  heard  a  call  in  the  Shawnee  tongue. 

He  shouted  in  turn — the  voice  replied — 

And  an  Indian  came  to  the  water-side. 

He  looked  on  the  current  swift  and  clear, 

For  a  little  time,  as  a  man  in  fear, 

Then  took  to  the  stream  like  a  mountain  deer. 

*  The  Ohio. 


THE  MURDER  OF  CORNSTALK.  199 

Sometime  he  waded,  sometime  he  swam : 
The  chief  looked  on  with  a  visage  calm — 
There  was  no  light  in  his  face  to  show 
That  he  knew  his  son  in  the  stream  below, 
His  dear  boy  Ellinipsico. 

"  That  night  passed  by ;  the  guard  who  kept 

Watch  on  the  hut  where  the  Indians  slept, 

Heard  the  voices  of  father  and  son, 

And  their  falling  footsteps,  one  by  one, 

For  an  hour  beyond  the  middle  night — 

Himself  then  fell  asleep  outright. 

He  said  the  words — in  that  strange  sweet  tongue — 

Of  the  ancient  chief,  and  the  boy  so  young, 

Were  like  some  music — so  soft  they  were. 

The  day  came  on  serene  and  fair, 

And,  side  by  side,  in  the  open  air, 

With  moving  lips,  and  steps  most  slow, 

The  white  men  saw  them  come  and  go — 

Cornstalk  and  Ellinipsico. 

"  That  day,  at  rising  of  the  sun, 
Gilmer,  and  Robin  Hamilton 


200  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Had  left  the  fort  to  stalk  for  deer 

On  the  Kanawha's  southern  side. 

It  chanced  some  Delawares  lurked  near — 

These  crouching  Delawares  espied 

The  hunters,  from  their  screen  of  grass, 

And  lay  in  wait,  to  let  them  pass, 

Then  fired  upon  them ;  Gilmer  fell, 

And  the  red  devils,  with  a  yell, 

Leapt  out,  and  rushed  on  Hamilton. 

But  Robin  turned,  and  ran  to  win 

The  river-side — which  soon  he  won, 

And  in  his  fear  plunged  headlong  in. 

His  friends  came  swiftly  to  his  aid, 

And  plucked  him  from  the  stream  half  dead, 

Half  drowned  and  terribly  dismayed. 

"  His  comrades  heard  the  hunter's  story, 

With  vengeful  threats,  and  curses  loud ; 

But  at  sight  of  the  dead  man,  scalped  and  gory, 

A  very  fiend  possessed  the  crowd. 

John  Hall,  a  desperate  man  and  bad, 

Said  with  an  oath,  *  The  Shawnee  lad 


THE  MURDER  OF  CORNSTALK.  201 

Brought  down  these  Indians  when  he  came.' 
The  crowd  was  grass — these  words  were  flame. 
Awful  and  stern  outbrake  the  cry, 
8  The  Indians  in  the  fort  must  die.' 

"  Arbuckle  strove,  but  strove  in  vain, 
The  fury  of  the  crowd  to  rein — 
Its  fierce  intent  of  blood  to  check. 
Right  little  did  the  miscreants  reck 
Of  such  entreaty  or  command. 
John  Hall,  with  rifle  in  his  hand, 
And  a  wild  devil  in  his  eye, 
Menaced  his  captain  for  reply. 

"  Meanwhile  the  Indians  sat  alone, 

Nor  knew  what  fate  came  swiftly  on ; 

But  Stuart  broke  in  suddenly, 

And  warned  them  of  the  peril  nigh. 

The  Winnebago  glared  around, 

For  refuge,  but  no  refuge  found, 

And  bent  his  dark  brows  to  the  ground. 

The  trembling  Ellinipsico 

His  innocence  essayed  to  show, 


202  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Saying,  with  utterance  like  a  moan, 

'  Father,  I  came  on  my  way  alone. 

My  path  was  single  in  the  wood. 

Our  people  are  white  of  the  Long  Knife's  blood.' 

But  the  great  chief,  the  pale  boy's  sire, 

Calmly  arranged  his  wild  attire ; 

Courage  and  pride  were  in  his  face, 

And  he  stood  in  his  robes  with  a  stately  grace, 

And  spoke  with  an  air  of  majesty — 

'  My  son,'  he  said,  '  fear  not  to  die. 

The  Mighty  Spirit  who  loves  our  race 

Looked  on  my  old  age  tenderly, 

And  sent  my  son  to  die  with  me.' 

"  The  mob  surged  onward  with  a  roar. 
The  bristling  guns  are  at  the  door  ! 
'  What  Manitou  wills  is  for  the  best,' 
The  old  chief  said,  and  bared  his  breast. 
A  click  of  locks ! — and  the  rifles  tore 
The  sachem's  very  heart,  and  bore 
His  body,  drenched  with  its  spouting  blood, 
Far  back  from  where  in  life  it  stood. 


THE  MURDER  OF  CORNSTALK.          203 

The  poor  boy  Ellinipsico — 

His  eyes  saw  not  that  scene  of  wo. 

The  courage  of  his  race  had  come 

To  nerve  him  for  the  martyrdom, 

But  his  weak  vision  could  not  brave 

The  face  of  murder,  and  he  gave 

His  young  life  to  the  sacrifice 

With  bending  head  and  cowering  eyes. 

The  Winnebago  stood  at  bay, 

And,  bloody  from  brow  to  knee,  contended  ; 

But  his  fierce  life  soon  ebbed  away, 

And  then  the  tragedy  was  ended. 

And  with  it  ends  my  old-world  story." 

So  said,  and  sighed,  the  miller  hoary. 

My  bookish  friend — when  he  had  done — 

Gave  thanks  to  Michael  Beattison  ; 

And  said  such  tales  were  worth  the  printing, 

And,  with  some  fair  art  in  the  minting, 

Would  pass  as  well  as  many  told 

In  the  high  chronicles  of  old. 


YOUNG   ROSALIE    LEE. 

I  LOVE  to  forget  ambition, 

And  hope,  in  the  mingled  thought 
Of  valley,  and  wood,  and  meadow, 

Where,  whilome,  my  spirit  caught 
Affection's  holiest  breathings — 

Where  under  the  skies,  with  me 
Young  Rosalie  roved,  aye  drinking 

From  joy's  bright  Castaly. 

I  think  of  the  valley,  and  river, 

Of  the  old  wood  bright  with  blossoms; 
Of  the  pure  and  chastened  gladness 

Upspringing  in  our  bosoms. 
I  think  of  the  lonely  turtle 

So  tongued  with  melancholy ; 
Of  the  hue  of  the  drooping  moonlight, 

And  the  starlight  pure  and  holy. 


YOUNG  ROSALIE  LEE.  205 

Of  the  beat  of  a  heart  most  tender, 

The  sigh  of  a  shell-tinct  lip 
As  soft  as  the  land-tones  wandering 

Far  leagues  over  ocean  deep  ; 
Of  a  step  as  light  in  its  falling 

On  the  breast  of  the  beaded  lea 
As  the  fall  of  the  faery  moonlight 

On  the  leaf  of  yon  tulip  tree. 

I  think  of  these — and  the  murmur 

Of  bird,  and  katydid, 
Whose  home  is  the  graveyard  cypress 

Whose  goblet  the  honey-reed. 
And  then  I  weep  !  for  Rosalie 

Has  gone  to  her  early  rest ; 
And  the  green-lipped  reed  and  the  daisy 

Suck  sweets  from  her  maiden  breast. 


18 


LOVE    AND   BE    KIND. 

How  hotly  men  will  wrangle — 

One  furious  with  another  ! 
See  how  the  strong  hands  mangle 

Some  poor  down-trodden  brother. 
Is  this  the  lofty  nature  ? 

Is  this  the  lordly  mind  ? 
Can  no  poor  human  creature 

Love  and  be  kind  ? 

But  if  such  strife  be  common, 

There  still  are  nobler  spirits 
To  rescue  and  illumine, 

The  mould  that  man  inherits. 
Such,  with  the  lamp  of  goodness, 

A  tranquil  pathway  find, 
Such,  in  the  raging  rudeness, 

Are  gentle  and  kind. 


LOVE  AND  BE_KIND. 

Strive  boldly,  human  brother — 

Not  with  your  fellow-creature 
But  in  self- war — to  smother 

All  growth  of  evil  nature. 
Be  of  the  nobler  spirits ! 

Forgive,  forget,  be  blind 
To  others'  faults — not  merits  ; 

Love  and  be  kind. 

Then,  if  it  chance  such  yielding 

Invite  the  rude  aggression — 
If  patience  gives  no  shielding 

Against  a  base  oppression ; 
Stand  up,  and  dare  the  danger 

In  armour  manifold — 
Defender,  not  avenger : 

Be  strong  and  bold ! 


207 


IMAGINARY   ILLS. 

I  HAVE  read  of  a  man  encompassed* 
By  phantoms  dire  and  grim  ; 
In  an  ancient  park, 
As  the  day  grew  dark, 
They  came  about  his  pathway  dim, 
And  with  weird  eyes  encompassed  him. 

It  was  the  Roundhead  captain, 
The  dreamer  Harrison. 
With  carnal  might 
He  strove  to  smite 

The  ghosts,  that  closed  his  blade  upon 
Like  thin  folds  of  a  vapour  dun. 


*  The  reader  will  recollect  the  scene,  in  Woodstock,  in  which 
the  enthusiast  Colonel  Harrison  does  battle  with  his  imaginary 
enemies. 


IMAGINARY  ILLS. 


In  such  an  armageddon 

Do  not  all  mortals  strive  ? 
Our  timorous  wills 
Create  vague  ills 

Whereat  we  strike — but  they  survive 
The  many-spending  blows  we  give. 

Good  friend  !  waste  not  your  prowess 
Against  such  phantom  woes. 
Be  stout  of  heart, 
Bring  courage,  and  art, 
Against  your  real  sorrows  : — those 
Are  often  vanquishable  foes. 


18* 


Some  sentences  from  Gary's  Dante  will  afford  a  proper  introduc 
tion  to  my  translation  of  the  famous  story  of  Ugolino.  Dante, 
conducted  by  Virgil,  has  reached  the  ninth  round  of  the  frozen 
circle,  and  there — 

44  I  beheld  two  spirits  by  the  ice 
Pent  in  one  hollow,  that  the  head  of  one 
Was  cowl  unto  the  other  ;  and  as  bread 
Is  ravened  up  through  hunger,  the  uppermost 
Did  so  apply  his  fangs  to  the  other's  brain 
Where  the  spine  joins  it.     Not  more  furiously 
On  Menalippus'  temples  Tydeus  gnawed 
Than  on  that  skull  and  on  its  garbage  he. 

4  O  thou !  who  showest  so  beastly  sign  of  hate 
'Gainst  him  thou  preyest  on,  let  me  hear,'  said  I, 
4  The  cause,  on  such  condition,  that  if  right 
Warrant  thy  grievance,  knowing  who  you  are, 
And  what  the  colour  of  his  sinning  was, 
I  may  repay  thee  in  the  world  above, 
If  that,  wherewith  I  speak,  be  moist  so  long.'  " 

Cary.  Canto  XXXII.— Inferno. 

The  "uppermost  spirit"  so  entreated  tells  his  story,  which  I 
translate. 


STORY    OF   UGOLINO. 


His  reeking  jaws  the  sinner  raised  at  last, 

And  wiped  them  grimly  on  the  skull's  vile  hair, 
Seeking  to  cleanse  them  of  their  fell  repast, 

Then  said :  "  Thy  will  obeying,  I  declare 
The  story  of  my  woes.     If  it  may  be 

That  what  I  utter  shall  prove  seed  to  bear 
Fruit  of  eternal  shame  and  infamy, 

To  him,  the  traitor  whom  I  mangle  and  tear, 
Then  will  my  earnestness  speak  weepingly. 

"  Who  thou  mayst  be,  or  how  art  come  beneath, 

I  know  not,  but  thou  seemest  Florentine 
By  thy  sweet  utterance.     I,  or  ere  my  death, 

Was  County  Ugolino ;  this  malign 
Damned  spirit  was  Ruggieri.     Thou  shalt  hear, 

For  reason  strong  my  dire  tale  will  assign, 
Why  in  this  place  I  neighbour  him  so  near. — 

That  trust  in  him  wrought  death  to  me  and  mine 
Thou  knowest  and  I  need  not  make  more  clear. 


212  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

4<  But  what  thou  canst  not  know  that  will  I  tell — 

The  ghastly  secret  of  the  Famine  Tower ! 
Hear  it,  and  judge  thou  if  he  loved  me  well. 

Mewed  with  my  sons  in  that  most  horrible  bower, 
Which  takes  its  title  from  our  martyrdom, 

I  watched  the  days  creep  onward,  hour  by  hour, 
Until  my  sense  such  watching  did  benumb ; 

Then  slept  I  that  ill  sleep  which  hath  the  power 
To  lift  the  curtain  from  the  time  to  come. 

"  I  saw  mine  enemy — this  one — bedight 

As  master  of  the  sport,  go  out  to  sweep 
The  Julian  mountain  that  forbids  the  sight 

Of  Lucca  to  the  Pisan.     Up  the  steep, 
His  sons  rode  with  him,  ranging  at  his  back ; 

The  boys  shrill-voiced,  their  sire  with  halloo  deep, 
Urged  on  the  fury  of  lean  dog  and  brach — 

Keen  brutes  and  questing.     After  that  my  sleep 
Saw  the  fierce  riders  flagging  on  their  track, 

And  then  their  sides — tusk-rended — gape  and  weep. 

"  When  as  my  sleep  and  dream  were  banished, 
Some  voices  in  the  darkness  reached  mine  ear. 


STORY  OF  UGOLINO.  213 

Sleeping,  my  children  wept,  and  asked  for  bread. 

Right  cruel  art  thou  if  thou  hast  no  tear 
At  thought  of  my  poor  heart's  foreboding  load ! 

Now  had  they  wakened,  and  the  hour  drew  near 
Wherein  it  was  the  wont  to  dole  us  food, 

And  each  watched  hungrily — but  did  appear 
Some  ghastly  news,  within  himself,  to  bode. 

"  Then  heard  I  harsh  keys  lock  the  outward  gate 

OJ  the  horrible  tower :  whence  uttering  not  a  word, 
But  staring  on  my  murdered  sons,  I  sate. 

I  wept  not — so  all  stone  I  was — but  heard 
My  boys  weep :  then  my  little  Anselm  cried, 

1  Father,  what  ails  thee  V  and  his  wan  face  reared, 
To  read  my  looks.     I  turned  my  face  aside, 

And  shed  no  tear — nor  anywise  appeared 
A  man  of  pangs,  but  dumb  and  leaden-eyed. 

"And  I  sate  so  until  a  second  sun 

Made  glad  the  freedom  of  the  outer  air. 
But  when  a  faint  beam  trembled  in  upon 

Four  faces,  imaging  my  own  dumb  care, 


214  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

On  either  hand,  in  agony,  I  bit. 

My  sons,  who,  in  that  motion  of  despair, 
Saw  but  the  craving  of  a  hunger  fit, 

Cried,  '  Father,  thou  didst  give  this  flesh  we  wear, 
Resume  it  in  thy  want,  and  eat  of  it.' 

"  And,  not  to  make  them  sadder,  thence  I  sate 

Holding  my  spirit  in  stillness.     Silently 
Two  days  went  by.     Ah,  earth  most  obdurate  ! 

Why  didst  not  ope  on  our  great  misery  1 
The  fourth  day  came,  and  Gaddo — my  meek-eyed 

And  best-loved  Gaddo — sank  and  cried  to  me, 
'  Father,  hast  thou  no  help  !' — and  there  he  died. 

And  plain  as  thou  seest  me,  saw  I  the  three, 
Two  days  thereafter,  fall  down  side  by  side. 

"  Thence  I  betook  me,  now  grown  blind,  to  grope 
Above  them,  and  for  three  dark  days  made  moan, 

Calling  upon  the  dead  in  wo,  not  hope  ; 

Then  hunger  of  my  grief  fell  mastery  won." 


STORY  OF  UGOLINO.  215 

Here  ending,  Ugolino  turned  to  hug 

His  skull,  as  a  gaunt  mastiff  hugs  a  bone, 

And,  slavering  fiercely  as  he  fastened,  dug 
His  teeth  into  its  scalp,  and  fed  thereon 

With  many  a  mangling  grip,  and  sidelong  tug. 

Pisa !  thou  burning  shame  of  all  who  be 

Dwellers  within  that  region  of  delight, 
Where  sweetest  is  the  voice  of  Italy  ! 

Since  man  is  slow  to  punish  thee  aright — 
May  firm  Capraia  and  Gorgona  rise 

From  their  isled  roots,  and  dam  to  drowning  height 
The  waves  of  Arno,  till  thy  perishing  cries 

Prove  that  thou  payest,  to  the  last  bloody  mite, 
Even  pang  for  pang,  thy  debt  of  cruelties. 

Thou  vile  !  thou  murder-fronted  !  what  if  fame 
Reported  that  thy  castles  were  betrayed 

By  that  fierce  sire  ?  Doth  it  abate  the  shame 
Leprous  upon  thee  for  his  children  dead  ? 


216  MISCELLANEOUS  POEMS. 

Brigata,  Hugo,  and  the  sweet  ones — twin 
In  gentleness — of  whom  my  song  hath  said : 

If  sin  there  were,  how  might  these  join  therein  ? 
Thou  modern  Thebes  !  their  very  childhood  made 

These  tender  ones  incapable  of  sin  ! 


THE  END. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


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University  of  California 

Berkeley 


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